The Wilkerson Effect
by sodium-amytal
Summary: "Oh my God, can we not discuss our sex life in front of our brother?" There's something wrong with every single word in that sentence; Malcolm hates his life.


"Why are you like this?" Malcolm whines, slamming the bedroom door behind him. Reese appears entirely unaffected by Malcolm's petulant anger. "Do you have any idea at all how dating works? You're supposed to let me win at laser tag when I'm paying for the date, you actual piece of crap!"

Reese fixes him with a look that's clearly questioning Malcolm's intelligence. "Why would I play a game and not try to win?"

"It's called being a good boyfriend," Malcolm drags out, because he hates actually admitting they they're dating and that he has a _boyfriend_.

"Aren't you the expert?" Reese teases, sort of shoving Malcolm against the door and closing the distance between them. Malcolm rolls his eyes and surreptitiously glances around the room for Dewey; he doesn't think he can handle giving Dewey the section of The Talk that parents and sex-ed classes never mention—the parts explaining how sometimes boys kiss other boys and sometimes those boys happen to be brothers. Luckily for Malcolm, Dewey seems to be absent tonight. There's no time to wonder where he might be, because Reese's hands are shoved underneath Malcolm's shirt, and, holy shit, his brain just sort of stops working when that happens.

Malcolm makes a helpless noise that's subsumed into Reese's mouth over his own, and he reaches out weakly, his fingers catching in the bulk of Reese's hoodie. Kissing Reese is an entirely new experience for Malcolm; it's rooted in emotions, in flickers of feelings he shouldn't _be_ feeling, like the spike of adrenaline when Reese's hands touch his skin, or the flip-flop in his stomach when Reese kisses him. Malcolm's never been good with emotions beyond actually feeling them, and he doesn't know how to handle the slide of Reese's leg between his own in a way that isn't grinding into it.

Malcolm groans around the kiss, and Reese tugs him in the direction of the nearest bed, landing on top of him. He shoves the unbuttoned flannel off of Malcolm's shoulders and latches his mouth to his throat. His teeth graze over the pulse in Malcolm's neck; Malcolm wonders if Reese can feel the panicked thrum there. Reese bites at his clavicle, grinds his hips against Malcolm's, and Malcolm makes a sound he's going to be embarrassed about later. Reese plucks at the button of Malcolm's jeans, spreads a hand over his stomach. His palm is hot on Malcolm's skin, and it's all Malcolm can do to keep his panic from bubbling out.

"Wait, wait, wait," he gasps, his hands pushing Reese away, and he tries to ignore the obvious signs of hurt there. "Do you—do you really want your first time to be with me?" He practically whispers it, like speaking the words at a normal decibel level might unleash some sort of ancient curse.

Reese smirks and scoffs a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself; you're not my first." Malcolm's jaw drops, his eyes wide, and Reese laughs again and kisses his mouth. "You should see your face right now."

"Dick." Malcolm bites at Reese's lower lip and smacks his shoulder, but Reese has seemingly become immune to all forms of violence while in the midst of kissing; this is practically foreplay for him.

Malcolm twists his head to call Reese an asshole when Dewey scrambles out from beneath the bed shouting, "On _my_ bed? Seriously?"

Reese and Malcolm bolt away from each other like they're on fire; in his wild panic, Malcolm falls over the side of the bed and bangs his head on the floor. That's going to leave a wicked-looking bruise, and it's a shame no one will ever see it. Reese grabs a pillow and shields any evidence of arousal, but it's pretty goddamn obvious what he's trying to hide, because it's not like people hold pillows over their crotches for no reason. "Were you hiding under the bed?" Reese asks. Malcolm shuts his eyes and sighs.

Dewey chooses to ignore that line of questioning and goes for the jugular. "Were you making out on my bed?"

Reese sort of shrugs, because, seriously, this is pretty damning evidence. Malcolm decides he's tired of looking at things upside-down and struggles to pull himself back up onto the bed. "Kinda," Reese finally says after a too-long moment of silence that seems to stretch out indefinitely.

Malcolm drags a hand down his face. "Reese..."

"And you went to laser tag? Without me?" Dewey asks, growing increasingly angrier with each word. "I hate this family! I'm telling Mom!"

Reese looks absolutely scandalized. "No!"

"No!" Malcolm reaches out to grab Dewey and stop him. "No, Dewey, there is an entire list of reasons not to do that—"

"Why didn't you guys invite me? I never get to do anything around here!"

Malcolm and Reese exchange a look. "'Cause you don't bring your little brother on a date," Reese explains, like it's obvious; Malcolm winces because, oh yeah, Reese _did exactly that._ Dewey lifts an eyebrow in a manner that's way too similar to their mother's_._ Reese clears his throat awkwardly. Malcolm just sighs and prays for the earth to swallow him.

"You guys are dating?" It sounds so much fucking worse when Dewey says it out loud. "Is that why you've been leaving me out of stuff?"

Reese nods enthusiastically, like he's pleased that Dewey's following this line of logic. "It's kinda hard to have a nice date when you've gotta watch your snotty kid brother"—Malcolm winces again—"man, I am really not making this any better, am I?"

Dewey folds his arms over his chest. "Where do you guys go on your dates?"

"Well, we've only been going out, like, two weeks—"

"Two weeks?!"

"Oh my God, Reese, please stop talking."

"What's the big deal? He already knows."

"I want in," Dewey interrupts. Malcolm and Reese stop bickering to fix him with the proper amount of confusion. "I wanna go with you guys, or I'm telling Mom that you're dating each other and making out on my bed, and that Malcolm didn't get those hickeys from the vacuum cleaner like he said—"

Reese bursts into hysterical laughter, falling back against the mattress. "You actually said that?"

"Dude, shut up."

Reese recovers from his fit of levity, still chuckling as he sits up and ignores Malcolm. "Go ahead and tell Mom," he challenges. At Malcolm's look of horror, he adds, "C'mon, we all know this has a pretty good chance of actually killing her."

"And if it doesn't? We're dead! Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars! Grounded for the rest of our lives—and maybe into the implausible-but-possibly-existent afterlife!" He shakes his head and pushes Reese aside, because Reese is an idiot who absolutely should never bet or gamble ever. "You just want to come along, right?" he asks Dewey, who nods enthusiastically. "And if we bring you wherever we go on our dates, you won't tell Mom or Dad or _anybody_?" He thinks that last part is particularly worth stressing. Dewey nods again, and Malcolm can't help but feel for him. He knows what it's like to be ignored and pushed aside in favor of another sibling; with the new baby and the family's dire financial situation, there's no room to ask for anything or stress their parents out more.

Malcolm sighs, drags a hand through his hair. Seriously, the shit he puts up with just to date Reese; Reese should be lavishing him with video games and blowjobs. "Alright, fine. You can come with us," he grates out. 

"But you have to sleep in my bed," Reese adds. "Malcolm and I get yours."

Malcolm thinks his face might actually be on fire.

"I don't know if I'm okay with encouraging this," Dewey says, like he's thinking it over. "Having you guys in the same bed might make you wanna...do stuff."

Reese scoffs a laugh. "I think that ship has sailed."

"Oh my God, can we not discuss our sex life in front of our brother?" There's something wrong with every single word in that sentence; Malcolm hates his life.

"I don't even want to know you guys _have_ a sex life!" Dewey counters. "But if you're gonna make out on my bed, I guess I don't have a choice!"

"You know, if you come with us you're gonna see a lot more making out than you're comfortable with," Reese adds, trying to be helpful, but Malcolm glares at him, because, really, what were they _just_ talking about? "It's gonna be gross, Dewey. Making out...with tongue."

"Ugh, stop." Malcolm gives him a shove that Reese sort of falls into.

Dewey makes a thoughtful face. "So are you two in love or—"

"Oh my fucking God!" Malcolm throws up his hands and storms out of the room.

#

Malcolm and Reese's first date with Dewey as a third wheel takes place at the movies, and they spend a good thirty minutes at home arguing about what film to see, because apparently Dewey isn't old enough to see a flick where zombies eat people in brutal, disgusting ways. Reese comes up with the brilliant idea of simply sneaking Dewey in to the movie, and Malcolm goes along with it; Reese gets this enchanted look in his eyes when he talks about zombie carnage, and if Malcolm's honest with himself he's sort of charmed by Reese's stupid enthusiasm.

Dewey insists on having his own snacks, so Reese has to shell out fifteen bucks extra, because the prices of food here are jacked up beyond reason. He's sort of scowling as they get inside and find their seats amongst the empty rows; Malcolm picks up on the way Reese's face is all frowny and disapproving. "What?" he whispers.

Reese presses his lips together, picks up a lone piece of popcorn. "We're gonna run out of money if we have to take Dewey along every time," he mumbles.

Malcolm can't help but shiver at the heat of Reese's breath against his ear. He tugs at his sleeves, pretends he's just cold. "Well, we can just strip down." Reese looks over at him in shock; Malcolm realizes how that sounds and feels his stomach lurch up into his throat. "The—the costs, I mean. We can, uh, just go places that don't cost that much, y'know." He tries to read Reese's expression, searching for some sign of agreement, but the trailers start, and Reese just nudges the bucket of popcorn over to him so he can grab a handful.

It's really fucking weird being on a date with Reese while Dewey's tagging along, Malcolm thinks. It's not as if Dewey's presence prohibits them from doing anything they'd normally do—Reese isn't big on excessive public displays of affection, at least not yet, and Malcolm can't get over the panicked flail in his chest long enough to actually try anything—but _still_. Dewey isn't even looking at them, too engrossed in the gory images onscreen, but Malcolm still feels like his life choices are being scrutinized by his ten-year-old brother.

Malcolm monopolizes the soda, his teeth biting down on the straw out of nerves. Reese doesn't seem to notice, as he and Dewey are too busy watching zombies eat people to pay attention to Malcolm. About halfway through the movie, Reese drapes his arm over the back of Malcolm's chair, lets his fingers graze over Malcolm's neck. Malcolm immediately stiffens and tries to play it off, grabbing a handful of popcorn as if he doesn't notice the affection, but Reese's arm wraps around his shoulders in a way that's impossible not to notice. Malcolm flicks his gaze to Dewey, because Dewey has to be judging them, right? But Dewey's lost in the movie, oblivious to their little moment.

It's like they've fallen into a parallel universe where Dewey doesn't give a shit that his brothers are dating each other. Malcolm doesn't know what to do with this. Even Reese is being rather lackadaisical in showing affection. What the actual fuck is going on? This has to be a set-up, Malcolm realizes, some sort of devious plot between Dewey and Reese to humiliate him. The only other possibility here is that they've all gone insane; Malcolm isn't exactly ruling that one out yet.

The movie sort of sucks, filled with too many scientific and logical inaccuracies for Malcolm to suspend disbelief—"Arterial spray does not work that way!" Malcolm had seethed—but Reese and Dewey seem to enjoy it, so by the end of the flick Malcolm doesn't even care.

"Could a zombie apocalypse actually happen?" Dewey wonders aloud as they're walking home after the movie. There's a crisp chill in the air that bites at Malcolm's skin; he tugs his sleeves over his hands and crosses his arms to shield himself from the cold.

"God, I hope so!" Reese exclaims. "Getting to shoot things and not getting in trouble for it? How awesome is that?"

"Zombies are a physiological impossibility," Malcolm says, "and ridiculously impractical as a threat to humanity. Literally every organism on earth would be their predators, extreme weather would cause cell damage rendering them useless, not to mention the landscape itself provides too many barriers for them to cross. And that's not even counting the military or the police or every average citizen with weapons."

Reese chuckles and slings his arm around Malcolm's shoulders. "Man, you are the nerdiest person I've ever dated." Malcolm feels his face flush and tries not to grin like an idiot, because Reese actually considers them a real couple.

"He has a point," Dewey says, still oblivious—perhaps intentionally—to their affection. "I mean, all these zombie movies start after they've taken over the world. But how did they do that if they're such crappy predators?"

"I know, right?" Malcolm exclaims.

"Why do you guys have to ruin everything I love?" Reese whines, thwacking Dewey and Malcolm on the back of their heads. "When the zombies rise up and destroy us all, I hope they eat you first." Malcolm just rolls his eyes affectionately, and Reese holds him a little tighter.

When they get home, Malcolm sighs, spreads his hands and says, "Alright, let me have it."

Dewey tilts his head in confusion. Reese stares at him like he's a particularly difficult math problem.

Malcolm feels the need to elaborate. "C'mon, I know you guys are just waiting to drop the whole 'being nice to Malcolm' act and be all 'haha, Malcolm's so stupid, he actually believed us.' So go on."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Reese asks after a moment of contemplation.

"I know you're faking!" Malcolm says, pointing an accusing finger at Reese. "You were way too cool with having Dewey tag along with us! And you!" He turns his anger on Dewey. "You didn't give us any crap at all today? You just sat there and watched the movie like an actual human without any ulterior motives?" He observes their faces, takes in the confused expressions they're wearing. Malcolm has no idea what's going on in this house. Maybe there's something in the water that's making everyone crazy.

"You think I'm faking?" Reese says with an uncharacteristic amount of hurt.

"I just wanna get into R-rated movies and go to laser tag with you guys," Dewey says. "It's not like Mom and Dad are gonna take us."

Malcolm just _knows_ this is some elaborate ruse they've devised together, but he can't figure out why, or what the outcome might be beyond making him look stupid.

He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again, before giving up on arguing entirely.

#

Sharing a bed with Reese that night is even weirder than their date. Reese's body seems insistent on climbing any other body within range, and that body happens to be Malcolm's. Reese's limbs are entangled with Malcolm's in a way that's absolutely incriminating if anyone walks in on them. This is bullshit, because Reese isn't even asleep yet.

Dewey's spread out on the other bed, enjoying his newfound space. Malcolm envies him, really. Reese's fingers skim over the jutting peak of Malcolm's hip bone; Malcolm swallows thickly, wets his lips. He closes his eyes and tries to will his manic heartbeat to relax. That's when Reese nudges his hips into Malcolm's ass.

"Jesus, Reese!" Malcolm hisses. "What are you doing?"

Reese sighs like Malcolm is the absolute worst. "Isn't this why we're suffering through Dewey tagging along on our dates?"

"He's right there!" Malcolm gestures to the other bed where Dewey's happily snoozing.

"He's asleep."

"He still has ears! And eyes!"

Malcolm can actually feel the way Reese is rolling his eyes right now. "Oh, okay, so we can show him zombie movies and include him in vandalism, but once I want some nookie, suddenly you want to protect the final shreds of his innocence?"

Malcolm isn't even going to dignify that with a response.

Reese shoves his hands under Malcolm's t-shirt and pulls him closer. Reese's thigh slides neatly between Malcolm's legs, and Malcolm can't help but push back, and, oh fuck, that's good. He bites down on what would have been an embarrassing sound, digs his fingers into Reese's arms. He can feel something hard and hot against his ass—holy shit, that's Reese's dick. Malcolm's heart leaps into his throat, and he holds his breath, waiting for Reese to mock him for something, but Reese just rolls his hips, presses his cock against the curve of Malcolm's ass.

Malcolm grinds down and back, into the muscle of Reese's thigh, and a quiet little noise slips past his lips as he realizes _he's having sex with Reese_. Their hips move in small, mutual pushes that send spikes of heat through his groin. He's having considerable trouble staying still for this; his body wants to squirm in every direction. He can feel the wet heat of Reese's breath on the back of his neck each time they move together, and the soft, panting noises Reese is making are the hottest fucking things Malcolm's ever heard in his life.

Reese pushes his thigh up, sharp enough to hurt, and Malcolm gasps a breathless sound that's much too loud amongst the silence. Reese's fingers drag over his skin, his palms hot as his hands grab Malcolm's ass, his own hips shoving faster and harder as he swears through his teeth. Malcolm thinks his heart might burst out of his chest; he doesn't have much—if any—experience with other people's bodies, and having someone rutting against him is pretty much rendering him stupid. Especially when the owner of the hard, hot cock at his ass is Reese.

Reese presses up against him, breathing hot and heavy over the back of his neck. Malcolm might actually lose his mind in the next couple of seconds, so he reaches back blindly, feels the shifting muscle of Reese's hip beneath his fingers. Reese growls a low, needy sound in his throat that, coupled with his thigh pushing and shoving, knocks out all of Malcolm's self-control, and he's coming hard in his boxers, biting his lower lip to quiet the pathetic little moan bubbling out of his mouth.

Reese digs his fingers in, then his whole body tenses as he shoves forward and makes a choked, desperate sound. Their hips are still moving in frantic, needy pulses, wringing out the aftershocks, and Reese is breathing hard in Malcolm's hair; Malcolm really shouldn't find that as hot as he does. He sighs out a shuddery, "Oh my God," and Reese just slides his hands over his skin, palms flat against his stomach. So that's what an orgasm with another person is like—pretty fucking awesome, actually.

Reese seems to share Malcolm's opinion on this. "That was...really awesome," he breathes out. "We should do this all the time."

The idea of Reese wanting to do this with him again turns Malcolm's thoughts to glue. "Y—yeah... Wow." This can't be part of the act, right? Dewey seems to be dead asleep, and if Reese wants to use this as some sort of ammunition against Malcolm, well, there's that old saying about stones and glass houses. So this might actually be for real.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, but when he wakes up Reese is practically snuggled into his back. Reese's hand is curled over Malcolm's shoulder, and Malcolm closes his eyes, wonders for a brief moment how this happened, how they got this far. He hears a sound and blinks awake, fearing his mother's walked in, but it's only Dewey, who's looking at them like he regrets everything in his life.

Malcolm groans and sits up, causing Reese's arms to flop uselessly against the mattress and wake him. "I need a shower," Malcolm mumbles, but Reese catches his wrist and tugs him back.

"No, me first, buttmunch."

"I called it first, jackass—"

"Why don't you go together?" Dewey suggests with feigned childlike innocence.

Malcolm stares at him in horror. Then he looks back at Reese, who isn't nearly as scandalized by this suggestion as he ought to be. All Malcolm can think to say in response is a resounding, "No!" Words have failed him today.

Dewey furrows his brow. "Why not? If you two are dating and sleeping together, this shouldn't be such a big deal."

Malcolm winces. "God, don't say it like that!"

"Well, we did sleep together," Reese says. Captain Obvious.

"That's not what he meant."

"I think it works both ways," Dewey says with a disgustingly pleasant smile before strolling out of the room.

Reese chuckles when the door closes. "'Works both ways.'" Malcolm rolls his eyes and slugs him in the shoulder. "Ow, what the hell?"

#

He lets Reese shower first, because Malcolm's an awesome boyfriend who occasionally puts others before himself—but it's mostly because he wants some time alone to think, and doesn't want someone banging on the bathroom door yelling at him to hurry up. Last night was his first sexual experience involving another person; he should feel different, right? Everyone talks about sex like it's some life-changing experience, like losing your virginity is this monumental milestone in adolescence. He should feel irrevocably changed, as if the earth has shifted under his feet. But he doesn't.

It's not that it wasn't great, because it totally was, but Malcolm doesn't feel like an older, wiser, or even a more mature person. He feels just as awkward and gangly as he did ten hours ago, perhaps even more so, because now he might be feeling different just because he thinks he should.

There's also the glaring fact that Reese is his brother, but that's another can of worms entirely, and it's going to take more than a shower to analyze that one. Malcolm shuts off the water and towels off once he's sufficiently psyched out for the day.

Reese is working over the stove when Malcolm joins him in the kitchen. The smell of maple syrup, butter, and cinnamon sugar fills the air. "You made breakfast?"

Reese feigns surprise, stares at the spatula in his hand with a horrified look on his face. "Oh no, was I sleep-cooking again?"

Malcolm gives him a glare. "Alright, smart-ass, I was just asking." He glances at the nearly-empty dining table; Dewey's sitting there patiently, reading the newspaper and waiting for delicious French toast. "Are Mom and Dad still asleep?"

"Yeah, I think last night was one of their 'special' nights," Reese says with a shudder.

Malcolm actually wants to vomit. "Oh my God!" he cries, slamming his hands on the edge of the sink. He drops his voice to a whisper and leans in closer to Reese. "Are you telling me that the night I lose my virginity our parents are having sex?"

Reese seems way too casual about this, calmly flipping the bread in the pan. "You didn't lose your virginity," he mutters dismissively.

"Dude, I'm pretty sure you broke it."

He huffs a condescending laugh. "Oh, naïve little Malcolm, don't they teach you anything in that genius class of yours? It doesn't count unless it's real sex, y'know, like..." He demonstrates by making a circle with his free hand and sticking the end of the spatula inside it. Malcolm makes a face. "If you want a more accurate visual, I think Dewey has some dolls under his bed—"

"They're not dolls, they're action figures," Dewey says, with dignity.

Reese rolls his eyes. "Dolls, action figures, tomato, potato..." He flips two slices of golden brown bread onto a plate and hands it to Malcolm, tops it with a pinch of powdered sugar and a drizzle of maple syrup. "Try it."

Malcolm slides into the chair next to Dewey and sections off a piece. It's decadent, like an orgy in his mouth, but he struggles valiantly with the instinct to make sex noises around the mouthful of sweetness; the absolute last thing Reese needs is an ego on top of his need to bruise people in terrible, creative ways. So Malcolm just says, "'S good," with his mouth half full.

Reese leans in, hands braced on an empty chair, his eyes wide like Malcolm's never said anything nice to him ever. "Really?"

Malcolm nods. "You're a great cook, Reese. I mean it," he mumbles, chagrined by the flagrant display of emotion.

Reese's mouth pulls into a smile, and Dewey laughs out loud. Malcolm and Reese turn to glare at him. Dewey feels their gaze and points to the comics page. "Garfield caught a fish."

"What is your deal?" Malcolm asks. "You're being even more obnoxiously cheerful this morning than usual."

"Last night was the best sleep I've ever had," he answers. "With you two sharing a bed, I don't have to wake up with anyone's butt or _other_ body parts in my face. I don't have to sleep in the fetal position. I can even spread out my arms if I want!"

Malcolm really envies how Dewey can find this much pleasure in such simple things. It takes him a moment to realize that this means Dewey didn't hear or see them rutting against each other like animals in heat; Malcolm actually sighs in relief.

"Glad you like the new arrangement, Dewey." Reese slides a glass of orange juice over to Malcolm; he looks left, right, behind him before leaning across the table and murmuring, "It's pretty awesome for me too," with a grin.

"God, Reese, please shut up," Malcolm begs, trying to telepathically communicate that Dewey doesn't know what they did last night and never will unless Reese keeps talking.

Malcolm's savior comes in the form of his parents, who emerge from their bedroom with Jamie in tow. "Oh, Reese, you made breakfast," Lois notices in that suspicious tone of hers when she's not entirely sure what the boys have done but suspects _something_. She seats Jamie in his high-chair. "How thoughtful of you."

Reese beams, proud that he's being noticed for something that isn't horrible and destructive, and fixes plates for the others while Lois opens Jamie's baby food. "I can be thoughtful sometimes," Reese says. "I have thoughts; they're just not as smart and complicated like Dewey's or Malcolm's."

Malcolm smiles despite himself, because Reese can absolutely be thoughtful—their first date immediately comes to mind—but he can't resist the opportunity to tease him. "But they're usually about the same thing," he says, a tiny smirk toying at the corner of his lips, and Reese scowls at Malcolm in a way he feels in his bones.

"I like when Reese makes breakfast," Dewey says to Malcolm in a low voice. Malcolm's got a mouthful of orange juice when Dewey adds, "Can you keep having sex with him so he'll make breakfast for us every morning?"

#

"How did you know?" Malcolm asks Dewey once they're alone and Reese is at work.

"Know what?" Dewey asks with innocence.

Malcolm lowers his voice, shuts the door to their bedroom. "About the sex."

Dewey puts a finger to his chin. "Let's see, you and Reese share a bed, then in the morning he does something nice for us." He shrugs, like that explains everything. "It's not hard to figure out, Malcolm."

"Oh yeah? Well, he's done nice stuff before when weren't sleeping together!" Malcolm knows how bad that sounds said out loud, but he sort of doesn't care.

"Like what?"

"Like last week when he washed Dad's car." Malcolm thinks that one over. "'Course, Dad was so grateful that he let us take the car to the mall the next day..."

Dewey frowns.

"What about that time he cleaned our room without Mom even asking him?"

"I remember that. It took me forever to find my socks again." Dewey sits on his newly-acquired bed. "How'd you start dating him anyway?"

"Remember that concert I went to a couple weeks ago? It was Reese's idea. I mentioned that I wanted to go, but I didn't think he was actually listening." Malcolm remembers more about the aftermath than the actual concert; Reese had confessed that he had absolutely zero interest in the band, just that he wanted to do something nice for Malcolm. It had taken Malcolm a couple minutes of stunned disbelief and questions before Reese made everything crystal clear by kissing him. Then back to stunned disbelief and questions until Malcolm finally kissed him back.

"You really should start using your powers for good," Dewey says.

"What powers?"

"Your powers for making Reese act like an actual person with emotions beyond terrible rage."

"I thought I was. He made us breakfast, Dewey." Malcolm thinks that's a point worth stressing.

"I was thinking more about using your powers for _my_ benefit. There's a food fair next weekend that I don't think Mom and Dad are gonna take me to. And you guys promised..." Dewey lets Malcolm put that one together.

"That doesn't sound too excruciatingly lame," Malcolm concedes. "What's the deal?"

Dewey shrugs in a way that's much too innocent. "I can like things you guys like."

"I feel like there's a catch."

He shakes his head. "Nope. No catch. Just buy me food."

Malcolm just knows Dewey's plotting something, but he doesn't know what. This is going to keep him up at night.

#

During lunch, Reese walks over to where Malcolm and Stevie are sitting, feigning casual in a way that makes Malcolm glance away like he wants nothing to do with Reese's shenanigans. Reese has a knack for looking suspicious without even trying, mostly because he never talks to Malcolm at school—at least, not in a way that doesn't involve punching or public humiliation.

Reese gives them both a little wave. "Hey, Mal'."

Malcolm lifts a dubious eyebrow. "Did you just call me 'Mal'?"

Reese rolls his eyes, like he has no idea why Malcolm might find that weird. "I need a favor."

"I'm not helping you stick explosives in the locker room toilets again."

Reese gives him an impatient look. "Will you just listen before you blow me off?"

"I am so glad you said 'off.'"

Reese scowls at him and gestures for Malcolm to come closer, so Malcolm drags out a sigh—apparently, Reese cannot have the pleasure of Malcolm's company without loud, exasperated noises—tells Stevie he'll be right back, and follows Reese to one of the empty tables near the perimeter of the school.

"What do you want, Reese?"

"You're going to work after school today, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

Reese glances both ways before answering that. "I have an idea for Saturday night, but I need you to pick up some stuff at the store." He shrugs, rubs his arm in a way that feels vulnerable.

Malcolm hesitates before answering, as if he just knows he's going to regret this. "Okay, what do you need?"

Reese feels a sick, lurching feeling in his gut. It's not like he hasn't done humiliating shit after losing a bet or as a result of his own stupidity, but this is probably the most embarrassing fucking thing he's ever asked. "Protection," he mumbles, like someone might overhear them.

"Like, what, mace? Are we going to a bad neighborhood or something?"

Reese covers his face with his hands. "Jesus, this must be what it feels like to be you. _Condoms, Malcolm_!" he sort of shouts in a way that totally doesn't draw any attention at all.

"You want me to buy condoms?" It doesn't sound any less sad or ridiculous when Malcolm says it, and he's even omitting the fact that the condoms are for _them_.

Reese tilts his head. "Yeah, I guess you could do that." He was in favor of stealing them, but whatever works. "Oh, and get some lube too," he adds with a half-smile that's somewhere between hopeful and chagrined.

"Oh my God!"

"Okay, never mind. I think Mom has a bottle of baby oil somewhere."

Malcolm's face is a hilarious shade of red right now. "Why do I have to do this?"

"'Cause I have detention today."

"So do it tomorrow."

Reese flails his hands helplessly. "Look, you know the cashiers there. You can work something out if they want to tell Mom. Me, I've got nothing! And if either of us get caught with condoms, at least Mom would think you're being responsible about it!" Reese makes a pouty face that gets Malcolm to stop glaring at him under his ridiculous eyebrows. His shoulders do some weird, uncontrollable flinchy thing, and he pushes a hand through his hair.

"But...we don't have to. I mean, if you don't want to...I just thought maybe..." Reese knows how to stumble over his words, avoid eye contact, and make vague hand gestures so that Malcolm almost shares the emotional brunt of his awkwardness. So of course he's going to do this.

"Alright, fine," Malcolm sighs. "But you owe me for the rest of the year!"

#

At the Lucky-Aide, Malcolm waits until Lois goes outside for a break before tossing the, uh, sexual aids into his basket alongside some household items so the purchase doesn't look too suspect. Besides, Lois had mentioned something about running low on formula and laundry soap, and Hal had ranted for a good couple of minutes that morning about the evils of squeezing the toothpaste tube from the middle. So Malcolm has an excuse to hide the condoms and lube amongst mundane items.

Malcolm rushes up to Craig's line and attempts to casually set the basket down, but instead manages to sort of drop it onto the counter with a thud. He forces up a smile. "Hey, Craig. Just, uh, picking up some stuff for my parents." He rocks back and forth on his heels. His heart feels like it's going to burst out of his chest. "How's that Klingon-to-English dictionary coming?"

Craig chuckles, and Malcolm swears he sees a twinkle there in the guy's eyes—though Craig's probably just thrilled someone's talking to him. "You remembered! I just started the S's last night. Did you know there isn't actually a Klingon word for"—Craig freezes when he rings up the condoms. "You sly little devil, you," he says with a grin. "You were trying to distract me, weren't you?"

An involuntary laugh bubbles out of Malcolm's throat. And now he can't stop laughing. This is the worst thing that's ever happened to him. He decides to go with it and spreads his arms. "You caught me!" Why are these words coming out of his mouth?

Craig wags a finger at him. "Naughty, naughty. What would your mother say?"

"Well, if she doesn't know about it, she won't say anything," Malcolm suggests.

Craig gives him a thoughtful look.

"Look, they're not even for me anyway. They're for Reese." Malcolm's pretty confident on this, because technically he's not lying.

"Are you sure?" He reads off of the box. "They're 'ribbed for her pleasure.'"

"God damn it," Malcolm mutters, dragging a hand over his face. This has to be some sort of universal karma for all the horrible things he's done in his entire life. He's done some pretty shitty stuff, so this is rather apropos.

Also Craig might be under the impression that Reese is gay.

"You're not telling her," Malcolm says again after he's paid and stuffed the incriminating items into his backpack. "You're not that cruel."

"How little you know me," Craig says slyly. "I'll make you a deal, Malcolm. You do me a teeny-tiny little favor, and I won't tell Lois that her son is buying sexual aids." Malcolm makes a face at the wording.

"What's the favor?"

"Leonard Nimoy is going to be at the sci-fi convention in town this Saturday. I want you to get me his autograph."

Malcolm feels his stomach plummet. Saturday? The one day he actually had something planned. "Why can't you do it?"

"I would, but the restraining order is still active for the next year or so."

Malcolm gapes at him. "Restraining order?"

Craig throws his hands into the air. "It was all a huge misunderstanding! It wasn't even a _real_ phaser!" Malcolm lifts an eyebrow. "But that's beside the point. You get me his autograph, I keep my lips sealed."

"Can't you just get one on eBay or something?"

"How much money do you think I have, Malcolm? I work at Lucky-Aide."

Malcolm hates his life; he really, really does. "Alright, fine. I'll do it." The sex better be fucking mind-blowing for all the shit he's putting up with.

Craig reaches into his pocket and takes out his wallet. "This should be all the money you'll need, including the cost of admission and extra for snacks. You'll want to get in line bright and early on Saturday morning, optimally Friday night. These people are ruthless, so don't expect anyone to save your spot in line if you have to use the restroom. I suggest the catheter method—which, by the way, we have in stock in aisle twelve..."

Reese is abso-fucking-lutely going to pay for this.

#

After helping Reese clean up the kitchen after dinner, Malcolm strolls into his bedroom to find Dewey sitting on his bed, his arms suspiciously drawn behind his back and his face scrunched up. "What are you hiding?" Malcolm asks with a tired sigh, shutting the door behind him as he walks inside. "If it's something gross, just throw it at me and get it over with."

Dewey brings his arms forward to reveal the box of condoms. "You disgust me."

Malcolm feels the blood drain from his face. "Oh, crap." Dewey chucks the box at Malcolm's head, and it hits him in the center of his forehead. With clumsy hands, he grabs the box before it hits the floor. Malcolm quickly stuffs the condoms back into their hiding place at the bottom of his backpack. "Dewey, what the hell? Why were you digging through my stuff?"

Dewey ignores that question, asking one of his own: "Are you cheating on Reese?"

The accusation makes Malcolm freeze. "_What_?"

"Who is she?"

Malcolm's pretty sure his entire fucking face is going to melt off from the intensity of his embarrassment. "Oh my God."

Dewey squints. "Or is it a he?" Malcolm shakes his head furiously, but apparently Dewey needs a spoken answer, because he asks, "Is it Stevie?" and Malcolm makes a horrified noise and buries his face into a pillow, because that seems like the quickest way to kill himself. "Y'know, ever since you've been going out Reese's actually been acting like a normal human being with empathy and consideration for others. It's very refreshing. So I hope whoever you're cheating on him with is worth it."

"I'm not cheating on him," Malcolm says after a moment of thought, turning his head so he can speak clearly around the pillow smashed into his face. "They're for us." Dewey gives him a horrified look. "Me and Reese, you amoeba!" Malcolm sighs and closes his eyes.

"You mean you guys haven't...?" Malcolm forces an eye open to see Dewey making vague hand gestures.

"Why are you making me have this conversation with you?" Malcolm whines.

"Because Reese would've shoved my head in the toilet by now."

"I thought you said he was human."

"He's still Reese," Dewey says, and Malcolm shrugs in agreement. Dewey waits a beat, dangles his feet over the edge of the bed before he says, "So, where's he taking you?"

"I dunno. He's being really secretive about it." Malcolm should probably mention that Reese's plans for this date involve their genitals, because sex will be impossible if Dewey's tagging along. He sighs loudly, looks over at Dewey. "Look, I know we had an agreement, but could you please stay home just this once? We'll probably go somewhere super boring for you, and—"

"You don't have to ask, Malcolm. I know you're going to use those condoms...or try to."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Dewey shrugs. "Nothing, just pointing out that it's gonna be awkward and stilted and hilarious," he says simply. "Now I sorta wish I could go; I can't remember the last time I truly laughed."

Malcolm thinks about flinging his pillow at Dewey when Reese swings the bedroom door open. "Whoa, who let the air out of Malcolm?" The mattress bounces a little when Reese flops down on it. Reese's body is hot and solid against Malcolm's own, and Malcolm shamelessly tucks up closer to him. "Scram, Dewey. I got homework to do."

Dewey makes a face. "Is 'homework' code for 'Malcolm'?"

"Hey, you _are_ smart! Now get lost."

Dewey does as he's told but makes a disgusted groaning sound before closing the door behind him as he leaves. Reese turns over so he's facing Malcolm—at least, as much as he can since Malcolm's still lying on his stomach with his face pressed into the pillow.

"Some code," Malcolm grumbles. "You haven't done homework in about six years." He jumps when he feels Reese's hand slide underneath his shirt and skim over his spine.

"What are you moping about?"

Malcolm turns his head to look at Reese. "For one, Dewey forced me to have a conversation about our sex life."

Reese snorts a laugh. "You should be proud; this is the only time you've had a sex life to talk about since, well, ever." Malcolm jabs his fist into Reese's stomach with minimal pressure. "Hey, it's not _my_ fault."

"And two," Malcolm continues, as if not hearing Reese's snarky remarks, "Craig needs me to do a favor for him on Saturday, otherwise he's telling Mom about the whole condom thing."

"You should've just stolen them," Reese says, exasperated.

"Because that would have ended _so_ much better."

"You gonna be gone long?"

"I don't know. Probably. I hope you didn't have anything special planned."

"No, actually, I can try to get Mom and Dad out of the house for a couple hours that night. Besides, it's not like we have to take Dewey with us."

"Always a plus." They're running embarrassingly low on funds anyway, so Malcolm has no problem with staying inside for their date.

Reese trails a finger down the notches of Malcolm's spine. "So, what's the favor?"

Malcolm shivers, breathes in a way that makes his back swell into Reese's touch. "Craig wants me to get him an autograph at a sci-fi convention. There's no chance you'd wanna go with me, is there?"

"Hell no," Reese says around a laugh.

"Worth a shot..." Malcolm turns his body so he's facing Reese and tilts his head to kiss him. It's a little softer than he was going for, but Reese stokes the fire between them by sliding a hand around the back of Malcolm's head and digging his fingers into his hair. Malcolm gets his hand underneath Reese's shirt, knuckles grazing over his stomach as his fingers push at the edges of Reese's jeans. He thinks about just going for it, shoving his hand down there and jerking him off, but they haven't done that yet, and Malcolm doesn't want to be the one to make an unwanted sexual advance. He's lived through a lot of embarrassing moments, but he's pretty sure that one would actually kill him.

"God, do you know how fuckin' hard this is?" Reese breathes the words over Malcolm's mouth.

"What?"

In a startling display of maturity, Reese doesn't turn that into a dick joke. "Waiting 'til Saturday. I wish we could just do it now."

Malcolm's breath lodges in his throat. He swallows, wets his lips. A cursory brush of his hand over Reese's crotch says that Reese is absolutely into this. "We should."

Reese sort of gasps, but the corner of his mouth's pulled into a tiny little smirk. "No way. Mom and Dad are home."

"We should do something," Malcolm corrects, spreading a hand over Reese's stomach and sliding his fingers under the waist of his jeans. "I mean, if you want..."

Reese's skin jumps at the touch, and his hips buck forward like he's trying to push Malcolm's hand against his dick. Reese's fingers are tight in Malcolm's hair and shirt, and Malcolm has no idea why he feels so strongly about touching Reese's cock right now. The edge of his hand brushes over the obvious erection Reese is sporting; Reese makes a helpless whimpering sound and shoves his hips into it.

He pops the button open, and Reese covers Malcolm's mouth with his own frantic lips, hands on either side of his face to pull him closer. Malcolm's about to slide his hand in when he remembers the bedroom door and feels something tug in his gut again. "W—wait, just—wait," he stammers, clumsily swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

"Seriously?" Reese groans. "Stop bein' a pussy and touch my dick; it's not gonna bite."

Malcolm gives him a little scowl before stumbling over to the door. "I'm not scared of your dick," he argues in a whimper that says he absolutely is. He props a chair underneath the doorknob to lock them in.

Reese snorts a laugh. "You can't even say it without sounding scared! Oh my God, how old are you?"

"Apparently, it's too much to ask of you to be a little bit nicer to me now that we're dating." Malcolm's moment of lament is cut short when he turns back to Reese and sees him there on his—no, _their_—bed with his jeans undone and his legs open.

Malcolm might have a little trouble breathing now. His mouth opens in a helpless gasp, and he wets his lips. "_Oh_."

Reese lifts an eyebrow, and Malcolm makes his way back to the bed, lies next to him. Reese is solid and warm against him, and it's almost too easy for Malcolm to smooth his fingers into Reese's boxers and thumb over the head of his cock. Reese makes a needy sound, jerks his hips into Malcolm's wrist. His chin tips down, his gaze focused on the way Malcolm's jerking him off slow and easy; Malcolm's not going to waste time wondering why that's hot—he's almost beyond questioning these kind of things by now.

"Oh," Reese breathes out, and it's urgent and full of need, so much so that Malcolm can't help but close his fist around Reese's dick, twisting at the head in a way that makes Reese bite back a groan by catching his lower lip between his teeth. "Fuck," he sighs, shoving his hips forward. Malcolm tucks himself a little closer, and Reese reaches out and bunches Malcolm's shirt in his fist. His mouth is making the most gorgeous fucking sounds Malcolm's ever heard in his life; he tries not to think about what Reese might sound like Saturday night when they're tangled together. He squeezes his thighs and loosens his fist, strokes Reese in a way that has him moaning and gasping into the space between them.

Malcolm feels like he should say something, but he knows words would be superfluous and probably harmful here, so he chooses not to use them, instead focusing on how Reese squirms and shoves into his fist, the way his mouth pinches and opens around praise and needy groans. Everything about Reese in this moment is entirely new to Malcolm, and he wants to savor it, burn it into his memory.

Malcolm strokes up and down, tightens and loosens his fist, and Reese claws at Malcolm's shirt, gulping for breath. He's close, Malcolm can feel it, so he slows down, because he wants to drag this out. Reese's eyes are dark when he looks at Malcolm for a half-second before flicking his gaze down to Malcolm's hand around his cock. He bites his lip, goes shuddery for a moment, and Malcolm murmurs, "C'mon," hand stroking slow over Reese. Reese jerks and comes in wet stripes over Malcolm's fist, moans much too loudly against the silence, and Malcolm's got no choice but to cover Reese's mouth with his own to swallow the sound. Reese hums around the kiss, hips still pushing through his orgasm.

"Fuck," Reese groans again, breathing the word around Malcolm's mouth. This time it's fragile and shaky, and Malcolm likes the sound of it. He glances down where his hand's still wrapped around Reese, sees the cum dripping down his fingers, and briefly considers tasting it. That really shouldn't turn him on as much as it does, but now he can't stop thinking about it. His heart thrums frantically in his ears despite Reese being the one who just came.

Fuck it, he's going to do it. There's a good chance Reese is still hanging in the post-orgasm lassitude that should make him pretty agreeable. Malcolm brings his hand up to his mouth and tastes him on the pads of his fingers. Reese tastes like salt and sweat and cotton, and he's smirking weakly at Malcolm through half-lidded eyes. "Gross," he mumbles, but his mouth's curled in a way that belies the sentiment. Reese sits up, leans back on his elbows. "Want me to do you?"

Malcolm doesn't waste time saying yes, just tugs Reese closer and crushes their mouths together; Reese takes the hint.

#

"Where is your brother?" Hal bellows at Reese on Saturday evening as Jamie wreaks havoc on the household merely by existing.

Reese really wants to respond with "hell if I know," but it's really in his best interest not to be a brat about this. Instead, he shrugs half-heartedly. "He's doing a favor for Craig. He should be home soon."

Hal's in the middle of changing Jamie's diaper when Reese says, "Y'know, Dad, when was the last time you and Mom had a night to yourselves?"

Hal pauses, looks off into the distance as if in deep thought. "I—I don't know. Before Jamie was born, certainly."

"You should take Mom out tonight. Just the two of you. We'll watch Jamie while you're gone." He knows his father will fall for this, because Hal's weak spot is Lois, and Reese's been waiting a long time to use this trump card; Lois is too crafty to trick, but Hal is impossibly easy when you know what buttons to push.

Hal looks at Reese in stunned surprise. "You boys would do that for us?"

"Yeah, why not," Reese says, shrugging to maintain his façade of being too cool to give a shit about anything.

Hal rushes off to the bedroom to tell Lois, and Reese looks back at Dewey, who's sitting on the couch watching TV, and grins at him. "You know what this means, don't you?" Reese asks.

"That you're going to stick me with taking care of Jamie while you and Malcolm do God-knows-what together?" Dewey answers calmly, like he's been through this a thousand times before and is simply immune to his brothers' cruelty.

"Exactly."

Dewey just sighs.

"C'mon, we won't bother you. You can have the TV all night. No fighting over the remote."

Dewey taps a finger to his chin. "That does sweeten the pot. But I'm still going to know you guys are—"

"We're not leaving this house until your brother gets home!" Lois hollers from the bedroom.

"Damn," Reese growls under his breath. Of course Malcolm would fuck up this perfect storm of events. Dewey tosses him a haughty smile; Reese scowls and punches his fist into his palm as a warning.

Malcolm stumbles in at about seven p.m. that evening, sucking air like he's just run a marathon. Reese grabs him and pulls him into their room. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Sorry," Malcolm gasps. "I had to wait in line literally all day, and when I finally got the autograph it was like, five o'clock, then Craig's car broke down, and it took too long to get a tow, so I just ran home. That was a stupid idea, because I have the lung capacity of a two-year-old!"

"Breathe, dude. You sound like Stevie." Reese pats him on the back and sort of shoves him out the door. "Okay, c'mon, they're not leaving 'til they know you're home."

"How'd you get them to leave?"

"I told Dad to take Mom out, and that we'd watch Jamie."

"But we're actually going to make Dewey do it?"

Reese winks at him, clicks his tongue. "Alright, go, go!"

Malcolm, still out of breath, staggers into the living room. "Mom? Dad?"

"Malcolm?" Lois emerges from her bedroom with Hal in tow. They're dressed rather nicely; they must be going somewhere fancy. "Where have you been?"

"I was with Craig, remember?" Malcolm says in a rush.

"Why are you out of breath?"

"His car broke down. I thought I'd walk home 'cause I didn't wanna be late."

Lois looks suspicious, but she doesn't press for more. She narrows her eyes, her gaze jumping from Malcolm to Reese then Dewey. "All right, you boys know the rules. I don't know what you're up to, but if anything, and I mean _anything_, happens while we're gone, all three of you are gonna answer for it. Do I make myself clear?"

"Crystal," Malcolm breathes out.

Lois gives him a strange look before walking past him and Reese. "We'll be back by curfew. I want all of you in bed by the time we get back." Reese shoots Malcolm a flirty grin that Malcolm rolls his eyes at.

When the front door shuts behind Lois and Hal, Reese sidles up to Malcolm and says, "Oh, we'll be _in bed_, all right."

Dewey groans.

"Shut up, Dewey."

Dewey gets up from the couch and rolls Jamie's carriage into the living room so they can watch TV together. "I hope you guys realize you owe me for this."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. We'll take you on our next date."

"And it better be something cool. Nothing lame like last time."

"Sushi Dragon is not lame!" Reese counters with offense.

"It is when you have to sneak rolls off your brothers' plates because they're too cheap to actually buy you food!"

"Why are you even complaining? You got to watch the chef prepare sushi with knives that were _on fire_! On fire, Dewey!" Reese feels like that last part is worth repeating.

"Whatever," Dewey says with way too much nonchalance considering that flaming knives are involved. He grabs the remote off of the couch and starts flipping channels. Reese takes this as his cue and starts pushing Malcolm in the direction of their bedroom.

"Jeez, Reese, relax. Did you just get out of prison or something?"

"If Mom and Dad are gonna be back by curfew, that means we only have three hours or so to make this happen."

"I think that'll be enough time."

"Not for what I'm planning." He shoves Malcolm into the bedroom and shuts the door, grabbing a chair and propping it up against the doorknob to serve as a makeshift lock. He reaches for Malcolm, who wriggles out of his grip.

"Whoa, whoa, wait. I gotta get a shower first. I'm dirty."

"You're just gonna get dirtier when I'm done with you."

Malcolm rolls his eyes, and Reese takes a bit of offense at that, because, seriously, these are some of his best lines, and Malcolm's completely unimpressed. "Just give me ten minutes."

"Okay, fine." Reese grabs Malcolm's left hand and takes off his wristwatch. He holds it up in a way he hopes is menacing. "Ten minutes."

Malcolm sighs and stomps into the bathroom.

Reese switches off the lights before he strips down and slides underneath the blankets, keeping a dutiful eye on the time. He digs through Malcolm's backpack and finds the condoms, stashes the lube underneath his pillow. Might as well be prepared beforehand. When Malcolm's ten minutes near their expiration, Reese starts an oral countdown: "Nine minutes and thirty seconds! Nine minutes and thirty-one seconds! Nine minutes and thirty-two seconds! Nine minutes and—"

"That's not going to make me go any faster!" Malcolm shouts from the bathroom.

Reese hears the shower turn off. "Finally!"

"Shut up!"

Malcolm's thirty seconds over his time limit when he finally opens the door and steps out, a towel slung around his hips. Reese tries not to ogle—a futile effort, really—and smirks at him. "I thought you changed your mind."

"After all the crap I've had to go through for this? No way." Malcolm stands at the edge of the bed, frowning at Reese. "Move over." Reese does as he's told, and Malcolm slides into the bed alongside him.

Reese feels a fluffy texture pressing at his hip. "Lose the towel, dork."

Malcolm's face loses a bit of color. "You first."

"I'm not wearing anything," Reese says, lifting the blankets to illustrate his point. Malcolm sheepishly looks away. "Jesus Christ, could you _not_ act like a complete and total virgin?"

Malcolm scowls at him and tosses the towel over the side of the bed before straddling Reese's hips. Reese grins, slides his hands along the length of Malcolm's arms. Malcolm stares down at him, his cheeks pinked with color. He startles a bit when Reese lays a hand on his thigh and turns him so his back's planted on the mattress. Reese plants kisses over the curve of Malcolm's jaw, hands everywhere at once. Malcolm's body seems to be relaxing into the touch, so Reese dips his head down, kisses at the naked warmth of his chest and stomach. Malcolm squirms in response, his fingers clutching at Reese's hair.

Despite his bragging, Reese has never done anything like this before. He's pretty sure that Malcolm knows it too, but he wonders if Malcolm will judge him for providing an unsatisfactory sexual experience. It's not like Malcolm's a fucking expert though, so there's that, at least. There's a jittery, unreal feeling to Malcolm's skin underneath his hands, and Malcolm's sliding his hands over Reese's back like he's afraid Reese will bite him or something.

"You—you wanna do this, right?" Reese asks. "I'm not pressuring you into anything, am I?"

Malcolm makes a noise in his throat. "Now who sounds like the virgin?"

Reese punches him lightly in the meat of his thigh. "Excuse the hell out of me for being considerate. Ass."

Malcolm hooks his legs around Reese's hips, like he's not sure of another way to ask for what he wants. Reese reaches down and palms him, wraps his fingers around Malcolm's dick as it twitches against his stomach. He's hard already, and he stutters out something and shoves into Reese's hand. He doesn't want Malcolm to come, not yet, so his fingers fall away, his hand withdrawing, and Malcolm makes a shaky noise of loss. Reese pushes Malcolm's legs apart, uses his free hand to grab the bottle and coat his dick. He lines himself up, guides his way in, and, oh fuck, that's good. Malcolm breathes out gutted little noises, angling his hips up as Reese slides inside, and Reese thinks this might be too much for him, but Malcolm's so tight and warm he can't really focus on anything else right now.

Reese sinks deeper, fully sheathed in his inner heat, and Malcolm murmurs, "Is it in yet?"

"Ugh, dude, fuck you."

Malcolm's eyes go wide. "No, no, I was just making sure there isn't more. Like, if there's more I might actually die."

"Nice save."

In retrospect, it's probably a wholly different experience for the both of them, and probably not a comfortable one for Malcolm, but he's pushing his hips into it like it's something that he wants. Reese thinks he could get used to this, because every now and then there's a gut-tightening wave of pleasure that sparks up and makes him shove in harder, fingers biting into the pillow beneath Malcolm's head.

Malcolm reaches up, pulls Reese's mouth down to his own, and Reese feels the slide of Malcolm's legs around his hips. He notices that Malcolm must have angled his hips a little, because his next thrust is sharper and deeper in a way that has Malcolm making the good kind of noises, the kind Reese imagined he'd make. This is good, this is better, he thinks, and he can't help but bite down on a moan when he comes, hips still pulsing in the wake of his orgasm. Zero stamina, and he doesn't even care. Malcolm's fingers dig into the base of Reese's spine, and he's gone, rocking up into Reese's weak thrusts to get the most out of the aftershocks.

Reese doesn't roll off of him straight after, just lies there while Malcolm threads his fingers through his hair. He worries that Malcolm might have some complaints about his lack of stamina, but Reese thinks that was pretty decent for a first time. He wouldn't put it past Malcolm to bitch about it though.

Malcolm doesn't say anything for a while; Reese maintains a cautious sort of optimism about his silence. This could go either way, really. He thinks asking if it was good might be considered a rookie mistake, and hopes that Malcolm's too blissed out from sweaty nudity to be too critical about his performance.

"So...that happened," Reese ventures.

Malcolm makes a sound of...agreement? Reese isn't sure.

"You, uh, you wanna try again? Like, in a couple minutes or something?"

Malcolm edges his thighs apart, and Reese worries he's trying to flee, but Malcolm just lies there and lets Reese's hips sink between his legs. "We could just, y'know, do this," he offers. "This is good, right?"

Reese hears the implications there. At least Malcolm's being polite about it. That doesn't stop him from frowning, but his face is turned away so Malcolm can't see. "Yeah, it's cool. I was just wondering."

Fuck Reese's life.

#

Malcolm's stocking shelves at the Lucky-Aide alongside Craig. He's been waiting for Craig to say something ridiculous and embarrassing for the past ten minutes. Malcolm just knows it's coming. You don't buy condoms without getting an awkward interrogation about their usage.

Craig starts whistling, probably in an attempt to seem inconspicious. Okay, maybe he's not going to ask. Maybe he's going to be a normal person and mind his own business. That's new for Craig, but making out with Reese was new for Malcolm until about three weeks ago, so he's not going to judge too harshly.

Malcolm decides to just ask his stupid fucking question before he gives himself a brain aneurysm. He glances around for his mother before lowering his voice. "Um, so, uh, Reese was wondering if you, uh, y'know, know a lot about sex."

Craig turns to face him. "I don't like to kiss and tell, but go on."

Malcolm's taking that as a yes. "Well, uh, he wanted to know how to, um, make it better..." He starts gesturing, and he's not even sure what his hands are doing here.

"Are either of them into role-playing?"

Malcolm groans. There is no goddamn way he's dressing up in some skimpy nurse outfit or outlandish bondage gear; his brain refuses to let that train of thought leave the station."I think that's...a little too out there."

"Strategically-placed whipped cream?"

Malcolm thinks about that for a moment before shaking his head. "He said it's more about a sensation kind of thing, not that the sex itself is boring."

"Doing something kinky can be exciting enough to make it feel more pleasurable," Craig explains, and Malcolm feels like he's in a really awkward sex-ed class when he hears words like "pleasurable." Christ.

Malcolm mulls that one over, but, really, what could be more kinky than having sex with your brother? "Well..."

"I've got an old pair of handcuffs somewhere in my car—"

"Why do you have handcuffs?" Malcolm feels compelled to ask.

"Mind your business, that's why," Craig snaps. "You wanna borrow them or not?"

"They're not for me," Malcolm reminds him. "They're for Reese." He fucking loves that he can say that and technically not be lying.

Craig gives him a look that says he's not buying any of the shit Malcolm's trying to peddle here, but he's going to be polite and not call him out on it. "Going once..."

"Alright, fine! Just...be discreet. This is not a conversation I want to have with my mom."

Craig slips the handcuffs—and the key, Malcolm was very insistent about that—into Malcolm's bag during their next break, and after work Malcolm's as jittery as a nervous horse, gnawing at his fingernails on the ride home. It doesn't ease his anxiety that Lois is watching him with a careful eye. She doesn't say anything, which almost makes his panic worse—because the only thing more terrifying than his mother when she's yelling is his mother when she's _not_ yelling.

Lois waits until they're halfway to the house before speaking. "What have you done, Malcolm?"

"Nothing!"

"Your father and I have been trying to figure out what's gotten into you boys to make you behave. Frankly, I think you're all hiding something, and don't think for one moment that I'm not going to find out what it is."

"We're not hiding anything," Malcolm says, trying to calm his leg from bouncing up and down. "We promised we were gonna be better big brothers to Jamie than we were to each other."

"Then why are you biting your nails?" Lois asks, lightly smacking his hand away from his mouth.

"I have to pee," he lies.

"Why didn't you go before we left?"

"I thought I could hold it! I'm sorry my bladder seems to think otherwise!"

Lois just sighs at his theatrics.

#

Reese looks up from his magazine in confused anger when Malcolm slings his backpack onto the bed, narrowly avoiding the vicinity of Reese's crotch. "You wanna not throw that at my junk?"

Malcolm rolls his eyes, shuts the door and sits on the empty space near the end of the mattress. "I brought you something, but if you're gonna be a dick you don't get to use it."

Reese sits up, intrigued. "What is it?"

"Well," Malcolm starts, his cheeks going pink with chagrin, "it's, uh, sorta for us." Reese lifts an eyebrow, hoping to elicit further explanation, but Malcolm seems too embarrassed to continue. This is fucking gold. "Y'know, to use when we're..." He gestures vaguely in a way that's supposed to represent sex.

"So, it's not explosives?"

Malcolm sighs and pushes a hand through his hair. "It's a pair of handcuffs," he says in a low voice, glancing away like he wants nothing more than to not have this conversation.

Reese can't help but laugh. "You wanna be handcuffed during sex? Wow, Malcolm, I'm learning so much about you."

"Ugh, shut up, Reese."

"Ah, ah, ah, it's Officer Nasty," Reese teases. Malcolm's face turns a hilarious shade of red, and Reese slides a hand over Malcolm's thigh and moves in closer. "You have the right to remain sexy."

"Oh my God," Malcolm groans, burying his face in his hands. "I will punch you."

Reese laughs again and slaps a hand on Malcolm's shoulder. "Why didn't you tell me you were into this? I could'a tied you up with a belt or something."

Malcolm blushes impossibly further. "I'm not—It wasn't even my idea. I might have...asked for advice."

"Advice?" Malcolm looks worried that Reese picked up on the implications of that word. "So our sex isn't good enough for you?"

"You're such a girl."

Reese opts to ignore that to focus on the bigger, unanswered question: "Who'd you ask?"

Malcolm's quiet for a moment, and Reese thinks he sees some shame there on his face. "Craig."

"You went to Craig?" Reese sort of shouts. "Who does he think you're having sex with?"

"Nobody. I said I was asking for you." Reese gasps in horror. Malcolm adds, "I already told him the condoms were for you; I was just being consistent!" Reese makes a mental note that he owes Malcolm a serious bruising later.

"Why would you go to Craig for advice about sex?" Reese asks in disbelief. He can't fit this into his world view—at all. "That's like asking me for help with math." Malcolm's done some stupid shit, but this is completely out of his realm of normal stupidity.

Malcolm's face flushes, and he shies away from Reese like he's embarrassed about his entire existence. As well he should be.

"Oh my God," Reese says, "what if it's me? What if having sex with me makes you dumber?"

Malcolm bites his lips together. After a moment of silence, he says, "I don't think we should rule that out—Oh my God, it's true! I'm actually considering that!" His eyes go wide in realization. "Maybe that's why our sex was terrible! Because my brain knows it's just going to make me dumber so it shuts down my body to keep me from enjoying it!"

"You—you think it was terrible?" It's not often that Malcolm says something that digs its way into Reese's brain and takes root there, but when it does it's usually something awful and heartbreaking.

Malcolm looks at him in stunned shock and immediately attempts to backpedal. "Oh God, no, I didn't mean that in a bad way—"

"Oh, you meant 'terrible' in a good way?"

"Well, no, it's just—it's not great, but it's not—it's just sorta..." Malcolm just lets the end of that sentence taper off, because there's absolutely no coming back from that.

"I thought you liked it..." Reese mutters. As if he needed one more goddamn thing that Malcolm's an expert on, one more fucking thing he can't call his own. Malcolm has math and science and, at times, stringing sentences together. Dewey's got musical talent and a brain bursting with creativity that spins off in infinite directions. Reese has cooking and bruising people—and the latter he just picked up from Francis. Reese is tied with Jamie, whose two special abilities are eating and crapping his diaper. And he's a baby! By the time he's Dewey's age he's going to develop at least one more talent.

This is catastrophically un-fucking-fair. Reese is firing everyone from his life forever.

"I don't _not_ like it," Malcolm says, measuring his words with care. "I just...think it could be better. That's all."

"So you went to Craig for advice?"

"It's not like any of my friends are gonna be experts on the subject!"

"Because all your friends are dorks."

"At least I _have_ friends." Malcolm could've punched him in the face and it would've hurt less than that.

Wow, Malcolm might actually be better at hurting people than Reese is.

And now Reese's total of things he's good at is down to one.

He shoves off of the bed and storms out, slamming the door behind him.

#

"What did you do to Reese?" Dewey screeches an hour later while Malcolm's trying to read. He sighs, rolls his eyes and turns to look at Dewey, who's pretty banged up, if he's honest. Dewey doesn't let Malcolm answer that. "He stole the TV away from me, then he barged in on my composing time, and then he beat me up and said he's taking his bed back!" Dewey grabs onto Malcolm's chair and spins him around so they're facing each other. "I can't go back, Malcolm! You have to fix whatever you did!"

"I don't know how to fix it," Malcolm admits. "I mean, it's not like I can just buy him flowers and chocolate or something."

"Why don't you just apologize?"

"It's a little more complicated than that..."

Dewey looks scared to ask this next question: "What did you do?"

Malcolm frowns, fidgets with his sleeves, his watch, his fingernails. "I might have, um, insulted his, y'know, performance in a particular area..."

Dewey gives him a flat stare. "You said the sex was bad?"

Malcolm blushes and looks away.

"What is _wrong_ with you? Why are you like this?"

Malcolm covers his face with his hands. "I don't know!" he wails. "And that's not even the worst of it!"

"There's more?" Dewey shakes his head. "No, I don't wanna know! Just apologize to him! I don't even care if you don't mean it! I'm not going back to sharing my bed!"

Malcolm sighs, because of course that's all Dewey cares about here. Not that his brother's an idiot who doesn't think before he speaks.

Reese sulks through the rest of the evening, avoiding Malcolm's attempts at reconcilation. So Malcolm stops trying and decides to give Reese some time to marinate in his angst before breaching the topic again. But that doesn't stop Reese from being the pinnacle of emotional maturity over dinner.

"Reese, this is amazing," Hal raves around a mouthful of quiche.

Reese smiles sweetly. "Thanks, Dad." He turns his gaze to Malcolm, and his expression darkens to something furious. "It's such a shame Malcolm thinks my cooking is terrible, that I'm not any good at it, that eating my cooking is just gonna make him dumber!"

Malcolm rolls his eyes. "Reese, you're the one who said that last part."

Reese chooses to ignore that, still insistent on pouting. "If I'm such a bad cook, why are you even at the table?"

Malcolm refuses to play into this. "Because Mom and Dad won't let me skip dinner."

"Malcolm, apologize to your brother," Lois says, not even bothering to glare at either of them while she feeds Jamie.

This cannot actually be happening. "Seriously?"

Reese gives Malcolm an arrogant, haughty little smirk that Malcolm wants to punch right off his face. Or kiss off. He's not going to be picky.

Malcolm sighs like the world has monumentally disappointed him, sinks down in his chair and mutters, "I'm sorry."

"For?" Reese needles him.

"...For saying your cooking is terrible," he grinds out. If he didn't know any better, he'd think his mother knows what they're really arguing about and is only doing this for the sole purpose of fucking with them. He wouldn't put it past her.

"And?"

"And? There's no 'and'!"

Reese glares at him meaningfully.

It takes Malcolm a second to figure out what Reese is referring to. He can't dress it up in a lame cooking metaphor, so he just says, "And I'm sorry for saying you don't have any friends."

Lois gasps. "Malcolm!" He sinks lower in his chair, praying for some sort of benevolent god to strike him down right now. "Why would you say something like that?"

"We were just joking around!" Malcolm pleads to both Lois and Reese. "It didn't mean anything—" The rest of his words are immediately replaced with delicious quiche. He glances over to his left, sees Dewey holding the fork that's stuffed into his mouth.

Dewey leans closer and whispers, "Stop digging."

Malcolm decides to take his advice.

#

Lois makes Malcolm and Reese clean up the kitchen for bickering like an old married couple, and they stay stoicly silent, refusing to speak to each other the entire time. Malcolm wants to be the bigger person here and just apologize again, his pride be damned, but not if Reese is just going to spit on his apology. So, Malcolm thinks, screw being the bigger man. Being the smaller man is pretty damn satisfying sometimes.

Dewey's already curled up in Reese's old bed when they finally make their way into the bedroom. Reese scowls and storms over to the bed like he's going to throw Dewey out of it. Malcolm gets his arms around Reese's waist and pulls him back. "Wait, wait, Reese, c'mon," he whispers. "Look how happy he is. Don't take that away from him."

Reese turns, lifts an eyebrow as if to say, "Really?"

Malcolm notices the way he's holding Reese. It's probably not in his best interest right now to pull away. He brings his hands forward, his palms sliding over the flare of Reese's hips. "I'm sorry I said all that stuff earlier..."

Reese's face goes through a complicated series of emotions, then he tugs Malcolm in the direction of the other bed. "I don't like being mad at you. Can you just stop saying stupid shit?"

"No!" Malcolm answers honestly. "It's not like I want to! It just comes out!"

"It was worth a shot," Reese mumbles with a shrug. He gets into bed, facing away from Malcolm like Reese wants to entirely ignore the fact that he exists.

Malcolm isn't sure if he should climb in and join him or if Reese is still holding his words against him. He sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for an invitation. "It's not terrible," he says after a too-quiet moment. "Really, it's not." Malcolm wants to say more, but he knows he has a tendency to fuck up royally when he tries to explain things. But, goddamn it, that's what happens when his mouth runs away with itself. "It's new, and I like it. I mean, you didn't start off being really great at cooking. It's—it's all about practice." He feels himself teetering on the edge of completely fucking this up, so he bites his lips together and doesn't say any more.

Reese breathes out a heavy sigh. "Are you gonna shut up and get in bed or do I have to make you?"

Apology accepted? Maybe? Whatever, Malcolm's taking what he can get. He slides in next to Reese, feels the heat of his back pressed against him. Malcolm edges his fingers underneath Reese's t-shirt. Reese sort of turns into the touch. "Maybe we could, um, y'know, try again," Malcolm whispers, squeezing Reese's hip in a meaningful way. "Practice makes perfect, right?"

Reese rolls over to look up at him, hooks a leg around Malcolm's own and tugs him down by his shirt. Malcolm's never going to stop being surprised by how soft Reese's mouth is, mostly because Reese himself is hard and abrasive and kind of an asshole. Reese doesn't waste time, peeling Malcolm's pajamas down his legs and pushing his underwear over his hips. Malcolm does the same for Reese, because if he's honest with himself, Reese's body is a sight to behold, and he wants to cover it with his mouth. He closes his mouth around a nipple, and Reese whimpers through his teeth, shoving his hips up and grinding his dick against Malcolm's ass. Malcolm squirms in Reese's lap, opens his thighs so Reese's cock shoves between them. Then he closes his legs and squeezes his thighs around Reese's dick, and Reese swallows back a moan.

Malcolm rises up on his knees, sinks down again and traps Reese's cock in the space between his thighs. Reese bucks his hips up, desperate for friction, and it's so good he has to bite his lower lip to stay quiet. Malcolm folds over him, digs around in his backpack for the condoms and lube, because he thinks another position might feel better, and he's currently in Reese's lap, so why not? His hands fumble with the task, but Reese doesn't seem to notice or care, judging by the way he's thrusting weakly between Malcolm's thighs like he's going to die if he doesn't come right now.

He finds that Reese will stay still long enough to get the condom and lube on if Malcolm just strokes him in his hand, slow and easy. Malcolm sinks down, lets Reese fill him up, and, oh, fuck, that's so much better. He can't help but moan out a soft sound against the air, and he takes the plunge, drops down around the hilt of Reese's cock. Malcolm drags his nails over Reese's stomach, because everything about this is new and different and teetering on the edge of too much—but it's really, really good. He nudges his hips back, feels the throb of arousal, and bites back a throaty whimper that Reese responds to by lifting an eyebrow.

"That's good, right?" Reese murmurs.

Malcolm finds the ability to nod. He nudges his hips back again, then rocks them forward, and, holy shit, that's amazing. Reese rolls his hips without preamble, forcing a shocked gasp out of Malcolm's lips. Malcolm lifts himself up a little and grinds down on him again. It's almost dizzying how good it feels; this is what he thinks sex ought to be like, something reflexive and needy and overwhelming. It didn't feel like this before. He wonders if it's this good for Reese too.

Reese reaches up, trying to bring Malcolm's mouth to his own, and Malcolm obliges him. He gets his hands gripped in the pillow on either side of Reese's head, arms quaking as he holds himself up. He rolls his hips to complement Reese's thrusts, grinding down just as Reese fucks up into him. Malcolm makes a helpless noise into Reese's mouth, tilting his chin, which makes Reese plant a sloppy kiss along the line of his jaw.

"You don't have to fake it," Reese mutters, scowling a little at Malcolm's theatrics.

"I'm not faking," Malcolm assures him through panted breaths, tilting his head so he can capture Reese's mouth again. "It's really good this way. For—for me at least. Is it good for you?"

Reese licks his lips and shoves his hips up again; Malcolm lets out a soft little cry that's way too loud against the silence. "Yeah, it's great." Reese's hands travel from his hips to the notches of his spine, fingers tracing and dragging over his skin as they move together, their rhythm unbalanced and hurried.

Malcolm thinks he might actually die if Reese's dick keeps grinding against his prostate at such a perfect fucking angle. He pushes his hips back, lets the tension build until his body's pulled taut like a wire. Reese drags him back in for a kiss, and Malcolm gets to smother his own pathetic moans when he comes hard and hot over their stomachs. Reese makes a sound of surprise, then his nails scratch down Malcolm's back as his hips stutter and slow.

They bask in the afterglow for a moment, hips moving in weak pulses to wring out the aftershocks until Reese grumbles, "Figures," into the juncture of Malcolm's shoulder.

"What?"

"Of course you'd only enjoy it when you're on top."

Malcolm huffs out an annoyed breath. "Shut up. It's not my fault. It's my stupid body."

"I hate your body," Reese mumbles, nudging Malcolm's arm with his fist in a half-hearted punch.

"Well, yours isn't so great either." Malcolm half-smiles to show that he's joking, traces his fingertips over Reese's skin.

Reese murmurs, "Was that better?" into the curve of Malcolm's neck.

"Yeah. It was great." Malcolm's fingers skim across the line of Reese's thigh. "We should keep trying though, just to see how good it can get."

Reese smirks and rolls over so he's on top of Malcolm. "I'm not tired. Are you?"

#

This new relationship with Malcolm is a learning experience for Reese. He never thought he'd take enjoyment from a blowjob in which he's not on the receiving end, but Malcolm is ridiculously squirmy and noisy in a way that's kind of hilarious. Okay, _really_ hilarious. There's something empowering about watching him squirm and shift, feeling his fingers tug at Reese's hair, and hearing him make whiny, breathy noises he'll absolutely deny making later. It's totally worth having his brother's dick in his mouth.

Right now, they're in bed with Malcolm sliding his heels over Reese's back, fingers gripped in his hair, mouth slipping free soft cries and gasps that make Reese grin around his dick. Reese is hidden beneath the blankets, so Malcolm can't see the way he's sucking and licking, but he can definitely feel it if the noises he's making are any indication.

Malcolm goes bizarrely quiet and yanks Reese's head up. His cock slides free from Reese's mouth, and Reese sticks his tongue out in a futile effort to reach it. Then he hears a door close; from the direction of the sound, it's probably the bathroom door. Reese wriggles out of Malcolm's grip and goes down on him again. Malcolm's hips buck up into his mouth, making him gag.

"God, Reese, don't—" Malcolm makes a quiet little yelping sound. Reese hums around his dick in a way that's supposed to be a question. "Dewey will hear—" Malcolm sucks in a breath through his teeth.

"You're the one bein' loud," Reese mumbles against the head of his cock before swallowing him again.

"I can't help it!" Malcolm hisses. "You try being quiet when your dick's in someone's mouth!"

Reese sighs, because how the fuck is he supposed to do this if he has to stop to talk every couple of seconds? "I have! It's not that hard."

Malcolm thwacks the side of Reese's head, which doesn't deter him in the least. "Will you just wait 'till Dewey goes back to bed before you—" His fingers curl in Reese's hair, and he whimpers a helpless little moan that should not turn Reese on as much as it does. "Okay, you're next, and I swear I will make you wake up the whole damn house."

Reese rolls his eyes—good thing he's under the covers, otherwise Malcolm would find a reason to be pissy about that—and works his mouth around the hilt, pleased that he's earned a blowjob out of this whole argument. Malcolm tugs him away again, and Reese hears the bathroom door open and the soft patter of footsteps growing closer. He hears the creak of the mattress next to them, then the shuffle of blankets.

"'Night, Reese. 'Night, Malcolm," Dewey says pleasantly.

"'Night, Dewey," Reese answers, muffled around Malcolm's cock in his mouth.

Malcolm huffs out an irritated sigh—Reese can absolutely tell the difference—shifts his legs over Reese's back, and raises his hips to bury himself deeper. He makes a choked noise as he comes, thick and hot in Reese's mouth, as his hips shove and thrust recklessly. He gags, hacks a quiet cough, and slithers out of the blankets to press a kiss over Malcolm's mouth.

"My turn," Reese says with a grin.

#

They settle in to their new, sex-inclusive routine over the next few nights, staying awake after Dewey's fallen asleep to paw at each other like the needy teenagers they are. Sometimes it's "real" sex—as Reese had put it—sometimes it's a handjob or a blowjob in the dark, but it's always a new experience for Malcolm that makes his heart race. He worries that Dewey will hear them, that one of their parents will barge in and see something they shouldn't; Reese seems to give absolutely zero fucks about any of this, which, if Malcolm's honest, is a bit worrisome.

But they haven't been discovered yet, and if Dewey's seen or heard anything questionable he hasn't mentioned it. So Malcolm does something irrational and stupid and lets his guard down just a bit.

He's watching TV with Reese, cuddled a little closer than he ought to be, but Dewey's taking up about half of the couch space, so Malcolm has an excuse to be pressed against Reese's side. Reese has a hand hidden behind Malcolm, fingers following the curve of his spine. Malcolm shifts, squeezes his thighs together, crosses one leg over the other. Reese chuckles under his breath and slides his hand lower to the dip at the base of Malcolm's spine. Malcolm goes impossibly still, because Reese _cannot_ be that brazen, and feels Reese's hand move around his hip, fingers tracing the lattice of his ribs. Malcolm holds his breath. His mouth quivers when Reese's index finger grazes over a nipple, and he lets out a quiet little whimper that makes Reese's smirk widen.

Malcolm thinks about fighting fire with fire, because if Reese isn't going to play fair, why should he? He casually drops a hand onto Reese's thigh and feels the heat through his jeans. Reese scoots forward and props his feet up on the coffee table so Malcolm's hand is dangerously close to his dick. He rolls Malcolm's nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Malcolm decides he's just going to go for it and lays his hand over Reese's cock. Reese turns his head and smirks at him, his gaze lingering on Malcolm's mouth for a moment before he leans in and—

"Boys, you're in charge of dinner," Hal announces from the other side of the house as he makes his way into the kitchen. Malcolm and Reese immediately pull away from each other; Dewey makes a quiet, exasperated noise. "Your mother's working late, and she needs me to pick up Jamie from daycare." Reese gets up and starts pulling things out of the kitchen cabinets. "Now, I don't think I'm being too presumptuous thinking you can cook and not burn down the house while I'm gone—" Reese noisily takes a dish out of the cupboard, derailing Hal's rant. He stops and stares at Reese. "What are you doing?"

Reese looks at the casserole dish in his hand. "I'm making dinner?"

Malcolm fully expects that to earn a comment from Hal about Reese's sarcasm not being appreciated, but instead Hal's brow just furrows. "I—I see that, but...I only asked once."

Reese shrugs. "Yeah?"

Hal looks hopelessly confused by this turn of events. He opens his mouth, closes it, puts his hands on his hips. "Alright, for the past couple of weeks, you boys have been"—he searches for the phrase—"eerily well-behaved. Reese, you haven't been escorted home by the police in God knows how long, and Malcolm, I can't remember the last time you argued with your mother."

"What about me?" Dewey chimes in.

"Who said that?" Hal turns around, spots Dewey sitting there on the couch. "See! You're being so good I forget you're even here! Now what is going on with you?"

Malcolm swallows, shrugs casually and joins Reese in the kitchen. "Nothing's going on. We just figured you and Mom need a lot more help around the house now with the new baby." He busies his nervous hands with rinsing off the potatoes, which makes Hal's face look even more deeply confused. "Did you like it better the old way?"

"N—no, no, not really, it's just—you're being so good," Hal whines.

Reese smiles. "Y'know what they say, Dad. 'Careful what you wish for.'"

Hal stands there watching them work for a moment or two before blinking back to his senses. "Alright, I've got to go pick up Jamie. You two behave—or _keep_ behaving, I guess..." He leaves, mumbling "this is weird," under his breath before shutting the front door behind him.

Dewey looks over the top of the couch. "Do you want me to help?"

"No, leave us alone," Reese snaps, handing Malcolm a potato. "Here, peel these."

"Why don't I just blow you while I'm at it?" Malcolm shoots back, because as much as he likes Reese's authoritative tone, he likes prodding at his bully complex even more.

Reese grins. "I don't think you have that kind of coordination."

Malcolm jabs him in the side with the rounded end of the peeler.

He finds that Reese is right; he's not very coordinated with the potato peeler. Malcolm's making frustrated noises that beckon Reese over to his side to help him. "Here, it's easy." Reese stands behind him, glides his hands over Malcolm's own and presses himself along the line of Malcolm's back. "Just do it like this." He demonstrates the proper technique, guiding Malcolm's hands to show him how to do it himself. Malcolm can't focus on much else but the warmth of Reese pressed against his back and Reese's breath at his ear. "You make everything harder than it has to be," Reese murmurs, running his hands along Malcolm's arms before letting them settle on his hips with a little squeeze. "You're thinking too hard. Cooking is about feeling, tasting..." He kisses the line of Malcolm's neck, smiles against his skin at the way Malcolm shivers. Malcolm feels the void when Reese backs up and turns away, and he's able to think a little more clearly and position the peeler blade at just the right angle.

That's when Reese gasps and says, "Dad?"

Malcolm's hand slips, and the blade slices into the fleshy part of his hand between his thumb and forefinger. He bites back a whimper and turns around, sees Hal standing in the kitchen with his mouth open in horror.

"Wow, that was fast," Reese says. "Where's Jamie?"

Hal shakes his head, still dumbfounded, and reaches out for something on the kitchen table. He doesn't take his eyes off of them, which is really disconcerting, Malcolm thinks. "I forgot my keys," Hal says in a near-whisper.

Dewey's been watching the scene unfold from the couch. "Busted," he sing-songs.

Malcolm's covering his wound with his good hand and sort of gaping wordlessly at Hal. This is one of those pivotal moments where he wishes he could freeze time and think of a better response. Why doesn't real life have save points? "Look, Dad, it's—it's not what it looks like..."

Hal's expression shifts into something less horrified—Malcolm might actually describe it as proud?—and he moves in to hug the both of them. "I love it when you boys get along."

Malcolm and Reese just stare at each other in mutual confusion as Hal leaves again. Malcolm has no idea what the hell just happened or, more importantly, how much trouble they're going to be in when their mother gets home. Because Hal is absolutely going to tell her about what he just saw. Unless they can get to him first.

Reese's gaze drops to Malcolm's hands. "Are you bleeding?"

Malcolm lifts his good hand to see that, yes, he is totally bleeding, and, wow, that's kind of a nasty wound. How the fuck did he do that with a potato peeler?

Reese asks him as much.

"I don't know," Malcolm wails. Of course he'd manage to injure himself in an almost impossible way.

Reese sighs like Malcolm is the absolute worst and turns back to chopping onions. "Dewey, will you help my dumb brother stop bleeding?"

"Don't you mean your _boyfriend_?" Dewey teases, milking this moment for all it's worth.

Malcolm groans. "Shut up. I still have one good hand." He lifts it for emphasis.

"I bet Reese is happy about that."

Reese laughs at Dewey's joke, and Malcolm glares at him. "Don't encourage him!"

"C'mon," Dewey says, tugging Malcolm in the direction of the bathroom.

Dewey's surprisingly unmoved by the extent of Malcolm's injury, which Malcolm's thankful for, because if Reese were patching him up he'd probably be marveling over the amount of blood or how deep the cut is. Malcolm hopes he doesn't need stitches, because he really doesn't want to explain this one to his parents: "Reese was flirting with me, and Dad came in; I had a sharp object in my hand, and I startle easily." They'd never let him live that down.

"You're gonna make sure Dad doesn't tell Mom, right?" Dewey asks, wrapping some gauze around Malcolm's wound. "I'm not giving up my bed without a fight."

"We could kick your ass blindfolded," Malcolm says, but he knows what Dewey means. "Mom's not gonna find out."

Dewey considers that for a moment. Neither of them say anything until Dewey says, "Are you in love with Reese?"

Malcolm groans like this conversation is physically paining him. "Oh, God, Dewey, c'mon..."

"Yes or no, Malcolm."

"That's—that's not even part of"—Malcolm rubs the back of his neck with his good hand—"Reese is just confused—"

Dewey actually looks offended. "I think you're the one who's confused. You can't even answer the question."

"Because it's not—" Malcolm stops, shoves his hand through his hair, tries again. Because, okay, maybe he is a little bit in love with his big, dumb bully of a brother, but Malcolm knows what that sounds like out loud. He might be a genius, but he's still trudging through the battlefield of teenage hormones and confusing feelings just like everyone else his age. "I don't know," Malcolm finally admits.

Dewey stares at him like he's judging all of Malcolm's life choices. "So what's your future looking like here? You're always on edge, even worse than before." Dewey smacks Malcolm's hand away from his mouth where he's biting his nails. "And even if you do figure out how you feel about him, it's not like you'll ever be able to tell anybody. You can't get married, have kids... After a couple of years people'll think it's pretty weird that you still live with your brother."

Malcolm forces himself not to let the truth in Dewey's words twist his expression. He stares blankly at the bandages. "I know it's weird and impossible, but...it's like the constant noise in my head goes away when I'm with him. Like, I don't have to try to impress him by being smart or trying to be cool, y'know? It's just...easy, I guess."

"Maybe it's not easy for him."

Malcolm scoffs. "C'mon, it's Reese. He doesn't care about that."

Dewey gives a "you never know" shrug and stands up. "All better," he announces proudly, patting Malcolm's bandaged hand. Malcolm shakes his head and follows Dewey out the door.

#

Hal appears to be living in a blissful world of denial when he gets back home with Jamie thirty minutes later. Malcolm makes a valiant effort to start a conversation with him about what he happened to walk in on, but Hal avoids any and all attempts at admitting what he saw. Reese doesn't bother with it, because he knows his father is a big fan of just ignoring a problem until it goes away. But Malcolm doesn't seem like he's going to stop until he gets Hal to confront the issue. Honestly, does Malcolm _want_ them to get grounded? It's like he does this shit on purpose.

"Dad, we have to talk about this," Malcolm's saying. "Denial is not healthy."

Reese groans "ugh" like he's sick and tired of Malcolm's bullshit. "Shut up."

"Now, Reese, your brother's right," Hal says, sitting at the kitchen table. "I think it will be best for all of us if we're honest with each other."

Reese rolls his eyes and continues stirring the soup on the stovetop.

"So, uh, Dad," Malcolm starts again, pulling up a chair and sitting beside Hal, "Reese and I have been, um, going out, y'know, _together_ for a few weeks now." Reese wants nothing more than to not be privy to the secondhand embarrassment going on here. Hal doesn't say anything. Malcolm keeps talking, because that's what he does when he's uncomfortable. "We're...dating."

"But...you're brothers!" Hal whines in a high-pitched voice that's not manly at all.

"I know, I know. I know it doesn't make any sense, but this is how we feel." Malcolm waits for his father to say something else. He doesn't. "Now, you say something embarrassing and uncomfortable that Mom doesn't know about, and we'll be even."

"You expect me to keep this a secret?"

Malcolm puts on his best begging face. "Please?"

"Mom will literally kill us if she finds out," Reese supplies. "Like, you will actually have to bury us in the backyard—"

"Not helping, Reese," Malcolm grates out.

"Sorry." Reese occasionally forgets how much better his parents' lives would be if he and Malcolm weren't around.

Hal's still stuck in horrified silence. "Dad, please, promise you won't tell Mom," Malcolm begs. "I kind of like being alive."

"Come on, this is your mother we're talking about! She's going to find out! Do you really think you can keep this hidden every day until you're both eighteen?"

Malcolm and Reese share a look, because, to be honest, they haven't really planned this far ahead. At least Reese hasn't. Reese is more about living in the moment; Malcolm's always the one worrying about the future.

"We can try," Reese says. "I think we've been doing good so far."

"Reese, in the last three weeks both Dewey and Dad have found out," Malcolm stresses. "Aside from Mom, the only other person in this house who doesn't know is Jamie, and I don't think he counts."

Reese pouts. "Francis doesn't know."

"Francis hasn't lived here for years!" Malcolm sort of yells.

"Okay, boys, boys, let's calm down. I'm sure we can talk about this like adults," Hal says.

"Look, Dad, we might not even be together when we're eighteen," Malcolm says. "Don't worry about it."

"Yeah!" Reese spins around to face him. "Wait, what?"

Malcolm stares at him for a moment before realizing where his words went horribly wrong. "I'm not saying we won't, just that, y'know, it's a possibility—a highly probably possibility considering the longevity of teen relationships..." There's no good way for that sentence to end, so Malcolm just stops talking.

Reese wants to say something scathing, but he's never been quick with the witty comebacks. He can't just tell Malcolm to go screw himself either, because Hal would definitely take issue with that. So Reese stews in an angry fog until their mother gets home a few minutes later. He's pissed enough that if Hal spills the beans about his relationship with Malcolm, he might just furiously deny it. It's not like Lois would actually believe it.

Reese stays quiet over dinner, even after his parents rave over his cooking, though he does take a little break from his vow of silence to take a few cracks at Malcolm.

"Malcolm, what happened to your hand?" Lois asks, noticing the huge bandage on his left hand.

"Oh, this? I, uh, I sorta suck at peeling potatoes."

"Malcolm sucks at a lot of things," Reese says casually before finishing his soda.

Malcolm sort of kicks him from underneath the table. Reese realizes how that might be misconstrued as a flirtation instead of just an insult.

"I wasn't being cute," Reese clarifies under his breath. "You really do suck."

Malcolm kicks him again, but there's less heat to it this time.

After dinner, Malcolm confronts Reese once they're shut away in the bedroom. "Will you just talk to me? Why are you so pissed?"

"You really don't think we'll be together when we're eighteen?" Reese accuses.

"God, Reese," Malcolm groans, collapsing onto their bed and burying his head in his hands. "I only said that so Dad would get off our backs."

"No, you said it was a possibility. So which is it? Did you just make it all up, or do you really feel that way?"

Malcolm's whole face winces, and he shifts awkwardly like he's uncomfortable in his own skin. "Both...kind of. I mean, yeah, I did say it for Dad's benefit, but there's a small—albeit very vocal—part of me that thinks you're just, well, screwing around."

Reese takes a surprising amount of offense to that. The words sting like he's been physically slapped. "What?"

The incredulous look on Reese's face must be intimidating enough that Malcolm feels the need to keep talking. "You're sixteen. Your raging hormones and poor impulse control are gonna take over eventually."

Reese scowls at him. "And yours aren't?"

Malcolm doesn't answer that. "Are you really gonna be committed during your teenage years to your own brother?"

Reese's first instinct is to say yes, but he doesn't know if Malcolm wants to hear that. So instead he says, "I could be."

"But you won't. We both know that," Malcolm says, with an almost pathetic degree of defeatism to it.

"Maybe _you_ do," Reese mumbles. He looks away, chagrined at the admission, and sits on the other bed so that they're facing each other. "People aren't as predictable as you think, y'know. You didn't see it coming when I told you I liked you, or the first time I kissed you. So what makes you think you know everything now?"

Malcolm's face goes through a complicated series of emotions before settling on something frowny and sullen. So, basically, his default expression. He drags out a sigh and mutters, "Whatever, forget it," before walking out of the room.

Reese has known Malcolm for fifteen years, and he's still not sure if that means he's won the argument or not.

#

The next morning, Malcolm's still lying in bed while Reese is in the shower. Dewey sits on the edge of the mattress and stares at him intently, like he's trying to peer into Malcolm's soul. Malcolm keeps his gaze fixed on the ceiling.

"Get up," Dewey says.

"Leave me alone. I'm trying to think."

"About what?" Then, as if reconsidering: "Wait, is it something gross?"

Malcolm sits up, sighs like it's taking everything he has. "I'm trying to think of how I can prove that Reese is gonna lose interest in me."

Dewey's brow furrows, but he doesn't say anything, just looks at Malcolm in a way that's silently judging.

"But he can't know that I'm trying to prove anything," Malcolm continues, "'cause that'll screw up the whole experiment."

Dewey makes an off-handed suggestion. "You could give him a test. Reese is a terrible test-taker."

"But how could I"—Malcolm's eyes go wide—"Wait, I've got it! I'll pay a few girls at school to ask him out and flirt with him a little, and he'll say yes and prove I'm right!" He does a little excited bounce at the prospect.

Dewey's glaring at him. "Why?"

"Because this is Reese!" Malcolm says with a chuckle. "The minute some hot girl pays attention to him, he'll forget all about me."

"No, I mean why are you doing this? I feel kinda dirty saying this, but this is the best relationship you've ever had. Are you really going to sabotage it just so you can be right about something?"

Malcolm frowns, because, man, it sounds really bad phrased that way. "N—no, I just... He's gonna change his mind eventually!"

"Why can't you just enjoy it while it lasts?" Dewey asks. "It's like you _want_ to be unhappy forever!"

"I don't—" Malcolm sighs out through his nose, bites his lips together. "That's stupid, Dewey. Nobody wants to be unhappy. I just know how he is and that he's gonna..."

"So it is about being right?" Dewey says with a cocky grin, like he's pleased that he's poked holes in Malcolm's logic.

"No, it's just..." Malcolm rubs a hand over his face, looks away. "I need him to realize this before it's too late. If he's gonna lose interest anyway, I'd rather him do it sooner than later, y'know?" He mumbles the words out, chagrined at such an open, honest display of emotion.

It takes Dewey a moment to understand the subtext, though Malcolm's nervous gestures probably helped him put the pieces together. "You do love him!"

"Ugh, don't say it out loud," Malcolm groans. "He might hear you."

#

By the end of the school day, Reese has been asked out by three impossibly hot girls and rejected them all; this might be a sign of the impending apocalypse.

He was really flattered the first time, because who doesn't like a self-esteem boost? The second time he felt a nagging suspicion, because shit like this doesn't happen twice in the same day. By the third time, Reese was absolutely certain this was contrived and stopped feeling any sort of flattery or pride.

There's no way these girls suddenly became interested in him, like maybe they'd heard he was taken and realized what an awesome catch he was, because they would have hit on Malcolm too, and Malcolm said nothing about being asked out by hot girls. So Reese knows this whole thing had to be some scheme to make him look stupid, but he'd thwarted them in the end by turning down all the offers for dates. Somehow this doesn't reassure him.

After school, Malcolm's in his room doing homework when Reese storms in, tosses his backpack onto the floor, and punches Malcolm square in the arm. It's a real punch, too; none of that half-hearted crap they've been trading lately. "Ow! Reese, what the hell?"

"That's for trying to set me up, you jackass!"

Malcolm turns to face him and fixes him with a look. "What?"

"Those girls that asked me out. What'd you do? Pay 'em? Do their homework?"

Malcolm lifts an eyebrow. "Did you really just punch me for trying to hook you up with hot girls?"

"Ah-hah! I knew you had something to do with it!" Reese accuses. "The only time three hot girls ever ask me out is in my dreams!" He punches Malcolm again, just for good measure. Dick.

Malcolm nearly falls out of his chair. "You knew the whole time? That ruins everything!"

"What are you talking about? Was this some kind of experiment?"

Malcolm rolls back a bit, because he really doesn't want to get punched again. "Sort of," he admits, bracing himself for Reese's fury. But Reese just stands there looking confused and hurt, like a puppy who doesn't know what he did wrong. No one's face should look that sad. Ever. "Did you say yes?"

Reese shakes his head, scoffs out, "No."

Malcolm sighs. "Because you knew it was a test."

"No, because I really didn't wanna be with them!" he shouts. "God, Malcolm, you're supposed to be a genius!"

Malcolm doesn't know how to process any of this. "You didn't even think about it?"

"No," Reese says angrily, like he's hinting at something.

"So, if you didn't even think for one second about being with someone else, that must mean you love me!"

Malcolm expects Reese to viciously deny that, or at least make some sort of digusted face, but he just yells, "Hell if I know why, because you're the most irritating, whiny person alive! Can you stop overthinking and fucking things up and just enjoy this?"

Malcolm stares at him, his head whirling dizzily from the onslaught of emotion here, and, wow, Reese is kind of hot when he's mad. He opens his mouth, closes it. Then: "You think I'm whiny?"

Reese makes an aggravated sound and drags a hand over his face. "That's what you focus on?"

"Of course. It—it doesn't make sense for you to love me. This is like something out of a science fiction novel!"

"You're an idiot," Reese breathes out, exasperated, as he moves closer and gets his hands full of Malcolm's shirt so he can kiss him. Malcolm opens his mouth to argue with that, which earns him the wet slide of Reese's tongue past his lips. Reese's hand skims over the curve of Malcolm's stomach, digs into his jeans, and, okay, Malcolm's totally fine with Reese thinking he's an idiot if he gets a handjob out of it.

#

Malcolm sneaks out of bed ridiculously early Saturday morning to stuff his bedsheets in the washing machine. He hates how this relationship has given him tin-foil hat levels of paranoia, because he's washed his own sheets before for equally embarrassing reasons and never felt like his parents would judge him for it. He's a teenage boy, damn it; this shit comes with the territory. But now that Reese is the cause of the jizzapalooza, Malcolm feels like they're just going to _know_.

If someone had told Malcolm two years ago that he'd be getting fucked by his brother and washing their jizz out of his sheets, he'd laugh his ass off. When did his life get so goddamn _weird_?

He's slowly lowering the washing machine lid when Dewey's voice comes right the hell out of nowhere and pipes up, "Hey, Malcolm."

Malcolm flails like he's boneless and drops the lid in a loud and totally conspicuous way. He spins around to face Dewey with a look of panic and suspicion. "What?"

"What happened to your bedsheets?" Dewey asks, feigning innocence that Malcolm really wants to call bullshit on, because there's no way he's _that_ naïve.

"Nothing," Malcolm hisses under his breath.

"Did Reese have an accident? I thought he was house-broken."

Malcolm just glares at him. Where did the smart-ass gene come from in this family?

Dewey gasps. "Was it you?"

"Can't a guy wash his sheets without being interrogated? Jeez!"

Dewey pats Malcolm's arm in a sympathetic gesture. "It's okay. Everybody has an accident once in a while."

Malcolm sighs. He has no idea if this is less embarrassing than the truth, but, whatever, he's just going to go with it. It's not like Dewey's vindictive enough to tell their parents.

Reese pads out of the bedroom with his pajamas slung low on his hips and a tanktop showcasing his ridiculously toned arms. Malcolm makes a choked noise of appreciation and looks away immediately. "God, Reese, put a shirt on."

He chuckles. "Alright, gimme yours." Reese reaches out for the hem of Malcolm's shirt and tugs at it like he's going to draw it over Malcolm's head, but instead he just pulls him closer so they're pressed together.

Malcolm breathes out in a way that feels too loud. Reese leans in, slaps his free hand over Dewey's eyes and presses his mouth over Malcolm's own.

"This is just insulting," Dewey mumbles. "I've seen you guys kiss before."

"Completely by accident," Malcolm argues around Reese's mouth. "Technically, you shouldn't even know about us."

Reese sighs. "You're interrupting a kiss to argue with him?"

Malcolm can't think of anything wittier than, "Shut up." He jumps when he feels the heat of Reese's hands on his hips, trembles when those hands slide underneath his pajamas and grab his ass. "Wanna go back to bed?" he murmurs.

"I get to be on top this time," Reese says, and Dewey groans theatrically behind them.

Reese's hands are underneath Malcolm's shirt, palms caressing the jutting peaks of his shoulder blades when he suddenly shoves Malcolm away like he's on fire and shouts, "No, Malcolm, I'm not gonna make out with you 'for practice!'"

Malcolm's confused as hell for a moment before turning around to see his mother walking into the kitchen holding Jamie. "You suck," Malcolm says, glaring at Reese in an attempt to keep up the charade. "You're the worst brother ever!"

"I don't even want to know what you two are hiding," Lois says, shaking her head and setting Jamie in his high-chair at the table. Malcolm flashes Reese a smile of solidarity as Reese moves for the fridge. Lois looks up at them in bewilderment. "Who's doing laundry?"

"Oh, uh, me," Malcolm admits sheepishly.

Lois stares at him like he's grown extra appendages in front of her eyes. "Why?"

In a moment of what Malcolm's mistaken for brilliance, he says, "Dewey had an accident!"

"Hey!" Dewey shouts, glaring at him.

Malcolm pats Dewey on the head and says, "It's okay. Everybody has an accident once in a while."

Reese laughs hysterically around a mouthful of orange juice that goes the wrong way down his throat. He coughs, sputters, and keeps laughing through raspy breaths. Lois says, "Reese, that's why we drink out of a glass like civilized people," and Malcolm shoots Dewey a look that he hopes to God communicates "please play along."

Dewey scowls at him. Malcolm thinks Dewey might actually hate him _forever_.

Dewey pulls Malcolm and Reese into their room a little while later while Hal and Lois are arguing about whose turn it is to change Jamie's diaper. Dewey slams the door and folds his arms over his chest. "I hate you!"

"Dewey, c'mon," Malcolm says with a sigh, because he feels like they have this conversation weekly. "I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to say."

"You could've told Mom the truth, that you peed in the bed!"

"I did not!"

Reese snorts a laugh.

"Well, it had to be somebody," Dewey says.

"Nobody peed in the bed," Malcolm explains, pushing a hand through his hair. "It was...Well, sometimes, when two people, uh, make love, it can—can get a little messy, and, uh..."

Reese laughs again and claps his hands on Malcolm's shoulders. "Keep going. I wanna see how much redder your face can get."

"Shut up," Malcolm grumbles, because it's early and that's the best he can do.

"You guys humiliated me," Dewey shouts. "You owe me big-time! Like, a car!"

"We're not getting you a car. You're ten."

Dewey gives them his patented scowling face, which Malcolm's a little intimidated by, if he's honest.

"We'll take you somewhere," Malcolm says. "Anywhere you want."

Dewey goes into his thinking mode and taps a finger to his chin. "Let's see...there's a production of _Candide_ at the community theater tomorrow night."

Reese makes a snoring sound. "Boring."

"You know what's not boring? Mom finding out you guys have been doing it for, like, three weeks," Dewey threatens.

Reese groans and flops onto his bed, which is currently sans bedsheets. "Ugh, this sucks."

"All right, Dewey, we'll take you to your stupid opera. But you have to keep your mouth shut about me and Reese," Malcolm bargains.

"If Mom thinks you're a bedwetter, you be the best damn bedwetter the world's ever seen," Reese adds.

Everything about Dewey's face is scowling right now, even his goddamn eyebrows. How does he do that, Malcolm wonders. Dewey growls, "You owe me," before swinging the door open and stomping out of the room.

The next evening, Lois stops Malcolm and Reese as they're heading out the door with Dewey in tow. "Just where do you boys think you're going?"

Malcolm turns to face her. "We're taking Dewey to an opera."

Lois stares at them for a couple of soul-chilling seconds before she starts laughing, actually fucking _laughing_. It's bad enough that Malcolm has to sit and watch some boring opera, but to actually be laughed at by his own mother? That's really pushing it. "No, you aren't!" Lois finally says once her levity's subsided. "Come on, what are you really up to?"

Malcolm rolls his eyes. "Nothing. We're really taking him to the theater."

"And after you drop him off, where are you going?"

"Inside?"

Lois folds her arms, watches them like she's trying to see inside their brains and figure out what's going on. "You're up to something. I know it. I don't know what it is, but I will find out."

He knows that she will, because there's no way he can keep his relationship with Reese a secret that long; Dewey and their dad have already found out and it's barely been a month.

Malcolm tries to give amateur theater a chance—he really does—but it's just not happening tonight. He spends the first thirty minutes of the play explaining to Reese what's going on, much to Dewey's chagrin. Then it all starts going downhill. Fast. Cunégonde catches Pangloss going at it with Paquette in the bushes—which is uncomfortably overacted—Candide is banished from the castle, nearly executed, and eventually makes his way to Holland. By the end of the first act, after Lisbon's wrecked by natural disasters, Pangloss and Candide are arrested for heresy, set to be tortured and killed to appease God and prevent another disaster, and Malcolm seriously hopes that disaster was this opera.

There's no way Dewey's actually enjoying this, even if only for the train-wreck entertainment value. He's doing this because he hates Malcolm and Reese and wants to make them suffer.

And he is absolutely succeeding. Dewey is ten years old and already an evil genius of Bond-villain proportions.

At some point Reese nods off, his head drooped on Malcolm's shoulder. Malcolm takes a moment to appreciate the closeness then gives him a gentle poke in the ribs to wake him up. "Stay awake or he'll find something worse to subject us to," he whispers.

Reese mutters, "Shit," huffs exasperation and sits up straight.

Malcolm leans over and whispers to Dewey, "Isn't this supposed to be funny?"

Dewey nods. "Oh, it is."

_Fucker_.

Malcolm thinks this whole thing would be about ten minutes long if the characters stopped traveling and trying to kill everybody—or maybe they could just kill Pangloss and be done with it. That dude is too damn optimistic to be an actual person—no wonder the Portuguese Inquisition had enough of his shit.

Pangloss asks the dervish why man is made to suffer so; Reese mutters, "I know, right?"

Malcolm snorts a laugh. "Seriously, why didn't they just stay in El Dorado? It's like they're allergic to happiness."

"Now why does _that_ sound familiar?" Dewey muses.

"Shut up." Malcolm glares at him, but Dewey's not even looking, so his wrath is entirely wasted.

#

Reese hears the patter of the shower on the opposite side of the bathroom door. The house is pretty quiet, which happens almost about as often as a solar eclipse. Dewey's out at the park with Hal, and Lois is preoccupied with Jamie, so Reese thinks he's got some time to fool around with Malcolm. He grins to himself, strips down and tosses his clothes haphazardly on the floor before letting himself into the bathroom.

"Reese?" Malcolm asks. Like it could possibly be anyone else.

Reese pushes the shower liner aside and joins Malcolm under the spray of water. His hands reach out to grab Malcolm's wet hips, pulling him close so Reese can kiss him. Malcolm squirms a little, impatient, his hands everywhere at once. Reese runs his fingers down the curve of Malcolm's spine and relishes the gasp Malcolm makes when Reese teases a finger or two at his entrance. Malcolm jerks his hips back into Reese's hand, moans a needy sound at his ear, and Reese pushes the digits inside, just enough to make Malcolm dig his teeth into Reese's shoulder.

Malcolm groans out a throaty, "Ah, fuck," presses his mouth to the slope of Reese's neck as Reese pushes and strokes and slides his fingers in and out. Malcolm's hands drag down his back, and Reese feels a little heady with power that he can reduce Malcolm to monosyllabic grunts and whimpers and make him beg. Malcolm's rarely ever at a loss for words unless he's rendered completely stupid by his own body, murmuring soft praises and encouragements over Reese's skin. Reese wants to take him apart, piece by piece, watch him deconstructed with each stroke and press.

Malcolm's begging things like, "Reese, please," and "right there" in Reese's ear, his cock hard and pressed tight against Reese's stomach. Reese works his fingers out so he can slide his hands underneath Malcolm's thighs and lift him up. He kneels, settling Malcolm over his shoulders and nudging him back against the tile wall. Malcolm gets out, "Reese, what're you—" before the rest of it's subsumed into a gasping moan as Reese's tongue licks him open. Malcolm covers his mouth with his hands, because, holy shit, that was way too loud. He's whimpering behind his fingers at the flick of Reese's tongue inside of him, his thighs quivering and his body arching forward. Reese holds him tighter, grins and says, "Still think our sex is terrible?"

Malcolm bites his bottom lip to keep a moan from bubbling out. He answers by tipping his head back against the tile and groaning, his hands snaking into Reese's wet hair. This is the loudest Malcolm's ever been during sex, and Reese fucking loves it. He slips his tongue in and out, hums around his opening, and Malcolm drags his nails over Reese's scalp and makes a noise Reese absolutely wants to hear again. He moans, pathetic and needy, unclenches a hand from Reese's hair to wrap around his cock. Reese can't reach up and stop him, so he just says, "No, I'm gonna make you come," and Malcolm's hand drops away limply as Reese dives back in, his tongue licking and stroking until Malcolm's tugging at his hair again and his mouth's crying out helpless sounds of need.

He comes in a fit of squirmy limbs and open-mouthed cries that Reese would do very illegal things to hear every time they have sex. Is Malcolm just a huge fan of shower sex, or is he particularly fond of this position? Reese thinks he's going to enjoy finding out for himself. Malcolm's dragging in breaths, his fingers curled weakly in Reese's hair as the pulse of his orgasm fades. "God, that was..." Malcolm swallows, settles for, "Wow."

"So good you can't think of any big, genius words?" Reese grins. "All right."

"I hate it when you're smug," Malcolm groans, smacking Reese's shoulder.

Reese kisses the inside of Malcolm's thigh. "You fucking love it." Ninety percent of Reese's personality is unreserved smugness; Malcolm has to love it.

Malcolm slumps down the wall a bit, and Reese holds him tighter, sucking kisses over the skin of his thighs when their mother's angry voice blares from outside the bathroom: "Reese, how many times have I told you not to throw your dirty clothes on the floor?"

Reese startles and loses his balance, causing him to slip. Immediately, he tries to catch himself, which he realizes too late is a horrible idea, because now nothing's stopping Malcolm from plummeting to the floor of the tub in an embarrassing, painful fashion—which he absolutely does. Malcolm yelps in mid-air and lets out another pained sound when he lands. Reese hears himself make some sort of aggrieved noise as some of Malcolm's limbs come down on him. Malcolm's weight sends them straight to the floor in a clumsy, loud thud. It's a slippery world of hurt here; shame and agony are sort of intertwined.

That's when things get worse. So much worse. Reese didn't think it was actually possible, but in retrospect, it's his life, so why wouldn't it? The bathroom door bangs open. "Reese, did you hear me?" Lois yells.

Reese panics and tries to send her away. "Yeah, sorry, I forgot—Ow!" Malcolm's heel kicks into Reese's side as Malcolm's desperately trying to climb off of him, to rearrange their positions into something less conspicuous, but, really, they're showering together. There's no coming back from that.

Malcolm's scurrying over to the other side of the tub when Lois shoves the curtain aside, and that's it, they're dead. Every single punishment for all the awful things they've done—combined—would be like a soft pillow in the face of this catastrophe. For once, Reese has no idea how his mother's going to handle this, but he knows it's going to be bad. New words will need to be invented to properly describe the extent of this punishment. Lois just stares at them in horror, because they've finally done something so horrifying that she's actually rendered speechless in the face of it. All they can do is sort of smile up at her half-heartedly, silent acknowledgement that, yes, this is pretty fucking incriminating and exactly what it looks like.

This is a very poor negotiation tactic.


End file.
